The Smell Before Rain
by Angeleyez
Summary: COMPLETE. You always hurt the one you love. RJ
1. One

**Title**:  The Smell Before Rain

**Author**:  Angeleyez

**Disclaimer**:  You know the drill.  Don't own the characters (well, most of them).

**Summary**:  "There's that line again, thin, and stretched too tightly."  RoryJess.  Almost.  Maybe.  They try.  There's always something in the way.  Sometimes it's from the outside; sometimes it attacks from within.

**A/N**:  Huge thanks to Mai for encouraging this and to the wonderful Arianna for looking it over, and saying real nice things.  The title and all chapter titles are taken from "The Boy Who Blocked His Own Shot" by Brand New.  As a warning, italics are parts that have already happened.  (They come up a lot.)  This is a multi-parter that takes place during Rory's senior year at Yale.  Disregard season four.  (In other words, Jess did not pop up during her freshman year, among other things.)  Comments and suggestions are always welcomed and appreciated.

**Chapter One**:  _And you can tell me how vile I already know that I am_

_I hate you._

_Hate, hate, hate.___

_It's a song, playing in his head; a light melody but he forgets the words, so there is only the chorus.  The pen taps along to the beat, and his vision blurs because he didn't get much sleep the night before.  Fluttering, eyelids close, is it possible to fall asleep standing up?  Trivial matter, his mind passes over the question in favor of the music.  The same words over and over again; there is only hate.  It is a blinding, consuming emotion, and it seeps into everything, tainting, leaving an ugly black stain behind.  The other verses are swallowed up by it, and he contends himself with repetition.  Hate, hate, hate._

_She hates him._

_He smiles because it's exactly what he doesn't feel like doing._

The kiss is long and bitter.  She tastes like Presidente, the cheap beer, and it fits her personality.  Unfortunately, there are only a couple of drinks in him, and he wants her to swallow him whole, so he can drown in the alcohol, warm and dizzying.  His hand lingers on the small of her back, and it's outrageous how much he's dulled himself for one girl.  But this one, oh _this_ one, grabs his hand, pushing it downwards until he hits her ass.  She must work out, he notes, and smirks against her lips before backing her into a wall.

Usually, it's all about satisfaction and it seems she simply isn't.  Oh no, she can't seem to get him close enough, and she keeps pulling at his shirt.  Her hands move around his neck, and she grinds against him.  He's half considering ripping her clothes off right here, because somehow, it seems like she won't be happy until he's inside her.  But at this point, he doesn't care (not caring: the key), because tonight, it's not about satisfying him or her, or any random stranger standing by, hoping to see a show.

It's about forgetting.

Alcohol is a temporary fix-it, as is anything when it comes to blocking out memories; he usually relies on this.  But when Jess considered bashing his head against a mirror, hoping to suffer the same fate as Leonard Shelby, because short-term memory seems like the cure-all he's been missing all his life, he realized maybe getting drunk wasn't the safest route.  Anything's possible with alcohol flowing in your veins.  Although these thoughts really didn't stop him from consuming the first beer he was offered.

However, a better solution:  sex.  Or at least as far as he can get.  He finds that with this girl, the simple act of kissing and groping is enough.  Melding his body against hers (she's still pulling — never satisfied… that's the problem, isn't it?  Nothing's ever good enough…), enjoying the feeling of not knowing where he stops and she begins.  He's lost himself:  inside her, somewhere in the crowd, at the bottom of a bottle?  Wherever he happened to leave himself, it doesn't matter.  Good riddance to bad rubbish, isn't that what they say?

Fingernails, claws, skim his chest.  He didn't even realize she had untucked his shirt; his mind is thousands of miles away, somewhere on the beach, scorching sun warming his body.  He's too pale, he could use a tan, and a tequila to sip, and he can almost feel the sand beneath his feet, lazily stretched out on a towel.  

But instead of paradise, he's settling for a girl whose first name he couldn't even pretend to acknowledge because it was never offered.  Instead, there is only a speaker in every corner of the room, sending out deafening music that has crawled under his skin, and man, he's ready to scratch until he's bleeding and raw.  There is only a crowd made up of people whose faces blur into each other, until it's just one pulsating mass of sweat and yelling.  There is only the thought that maybe he had more to drink than he originally thought, and the faraway sensation of movement.  There is only the bed that he didn't realize she led him to, and the release, oh god, the release that he needed before it exploded inside of him.  There is only the dull ache of emptiness, because it's all gone, all used up.

Then there is only hate.

_Honey, she tastes like the sweet syrup.  Her kisses are like a drug, intoxicating, addicting, and he's so high right now, he doesn't care to ever come back.  It's the strangest feeling, like flying, he can see everything from up here.  She brings him down, quick as a flash, but he's pulling her closer again.  Lips traveling up her jawline, down her neck, marks already there because no matter what she says, he just can't help himself.  Her skin is pale, her neck a milky white.  She reminds him of a porcelain doll, fragile, and sometimes he's terrified he'll break her.  But what is life without fear, without risks?  He pulls her into his lap, and she lets him, but it really is she who is in control.  She knows it; he knows it.  His lips capture hers again, and for a little while, at least, he pretends he's the one with power._

Silence.  No music; the tune is completely forgotten.

He wakes in an unfamiliar bed, in a room he doesn't recognize, and he stretches, letting the unknown soak in.  Vaguely, he wonders if there is anyone home.  Perhaps they're downstairs gathering for breakfast, and he could slip in and join them at the table.  Odd looks would be shot his way, until he asked 'who else here has a horrible hangover?'  Everyone would raise their hands and then they'd laugh at the sight, the full out kind of laughter that causes stomachaches.  They'd be bent over in half before they'd force themselves to stop, because it's not good for the mini army marching in their heads.  

Someone would offer him a cup of coffee, treating him like an old friend, and he'd accept it gratefully.  But then a beer would be pulled out, and then another, and another.  It's never too early:  Beer for Breakfast, Beer for Lunch, Beer for Dinner… he's seen posters with these words, and he always thought it was a great idea.  Another sip of alcohol, dulling his thoughts, and really, getting drunk is an excellent temporary cure for a hangover.

Right, temporary.  It's all temporary. 

He stands up in front of the window and bathes in sunlight before he dresses; each feather step he takes is an explosion inside his brain.  His stomach growls, desperate for any kind of food, and it's funny how certain words of wisdom don't reach him until after they're needed:  Never drink on an empty stomach.  His mouth, like sandpaper; he can't even swallow, it's so dry.  Eyes are bloodshot, he's sure of it, and there's a sensation — something like pain — on his back.  Checking in the mirror, gingerly lifting his shirt, he sees fingernail marks.  

Shrugging it off because it's not the first time, he stumbles into the bathroom.  When he turns on the faucet and sees water, blessed water, he feels as if he's leaving the desert he's been lost in for years.  Parched is an understatement, and his head is in there, sipping, drinking, and swallowing — finally.  Part of him thinks he just wants the taste of alcohol and sex out of his mouth.  That's the more rational side of him; he ignores this voice most of the time.  Finally, his thirst is satisfied, and he shuts off the water, and stands up straight.  There's noise, movement, coming from the bedroom.

He leaves through the window.

_Teardrops?__  It's raining outside, but it's mingling with tears on her cheeks.  Hair wet, thin t-shirt soaked, and of course she isn't wearing a bra.  But he's proud of himself when he keeps his eyes on her face, because it's genuine concern that swells in his chest.  He says absolutely nothing when she falls into his arms.  It doesn't seem as if she wants him to say anything, and he's grateful because he can't seem to find any words.  'I'm sorry' seems like a futile attempt because it's not like he did anything wrong.  Though it's funny how much easier it would be to apologize for someone else.  'It'll be all right' doesn't work, because he's a realist, and how can he know whether things will be fine?_

_His clothes are soaked through now, and her tears stain his neck.  He sits back on his bed and brings her with him.  The plan is to let her stay here tonight.  Give her a change of clothes, and then she can drown in her sadness and his oversized sweatshirt.  He'll put her in his own bed, and she'll fall asleep, the pillow still damp.  The couch is small and uncomfortable, and it'll be irritating to him at first, but this is what it's like to be a good friend.  In the morning, she'll be awake and attempting to make him breakfast as a thank you, and they will not talk about the night before.  It's an excellent plan, if he does say so himself; it's not like he's never been through this with her.  They're starting to fall into routine.   But then… then, she's kissing his neck._

_It seems as if she has her own plans tonight._

_Somewhere along the way, her sobs stopped, tears drying on her cheeks, and she took it upon herself to explore the skin she had previously been resting upon.  He pulls away slightly so he can see her, and her eyes, shining with tears she's decided not to shed, stare back.  Blinking rapidly and they're gone, dry, and then she's kissing him._

_He, the King of Physical Comfort, allows her to push him back onto the bed, kissing his lips, jaw, neck, down his chest.  She's upset; she was the one who was crying; yet it is here where he loses the power.  She makes the decision for the both of them, crosses the line between friendship and much more, and there's no going back now._

_There are tingles of excitement at each new exposure of pale skin.  He peels off her clothes; her skin is still moist from the rain.  His tongue samples her shoulders, and he thinks that the stormy weather has never tasted sweeter._

He reaches his apartment by bus, and collapses onto his own bed as soon as he gets in the door.  The phone rings shattering the soothing silence, and his head is sent reeling from the noise.  He lets the answering machine pick up, not in the mood to speak to anyone at all.  He doesn't even possess enough energy to unplug the phone, so he lies there, still, and listens.

"Jess…"

His heart beat turns irregular, and he holds his breath, a queer kind of fear that any sudden movement will break the spell, and he'll find out it's not Rory.  She's rambling on and on, and he's smirking because of it, and finally, finally:  an apology.  Something about how she didn't want to do this over the phone, but she can't stand the thought of him being angry at her, and she really doesn't hate him.  (This is a lie, he thinks bitterly.)  It was silly, she insists, and resentment is stirred up, somewhere from deep inside him, because thinking about what she considers 'silly' is literally killing him.

Alright, fine, she's apologized.  The ball is in his court now.  He thinks he'll go and visit her at the dorm tonight.  The later he goes, the shorter his visit will have to be, and that may be the best idea.  It'll be awkward at first, the air around them filled with uneasiness and uncertainty, two emotions that regularly accompany their friendship.  A part of him is happy that he can put their incredibly foolish fight behind him.  He doesn't even know why it turned into a full fledged argument in the first place.  Why was he looking for more?  He doesn't even like relationships; the suffocating fears of long term commitment plague him.  Then why, suddenly, was he hoping for a change?

He needs to learn to be satisfied with what he has.  Sometimes there is simply nothing more.  But it's hard when he knows that in this case, there _is_ more, because he once had it.  That was four year ago, however, and he screwed that up himself.  This is letting go, this is accepting; there's only hate if he doesn't.  

Sleep claims him then, and his surroundings fade to black:  a noiseless and forgiving color.  His thoughts leave his head, disappearing into oblivion.  He dreams, although he won't remember that they're of her when he awakes, many hours later, to darkness.

*


	2. Two

**A/N**:  Thanks for the feedback.  It's always a delight.  Things should become clearer as the story goes on.  

**Chapter Two**:  _And if it makes you less sad, we'll start talking again_

She hums a tune she doesn't recognize.  It reminds her of Jess, and she has no idea why.  It's not much of a surprise though, because recently it seems as if everything is an extension of him.  He's been on her mind so much lately, and try as she might, he won't go away.  He's like a parasite, gnawing inside her, and damn it, there's no cure.  But he's the best kind of plague; it's one of the reasons she called him, gave in so fast.  She can't have him angry with her, and the sooner they put that fight behind them, the sooner they can return to their usual heated normalcy.

Her eyes flicker across each page, but the words have all blurred together, one giant black swirl of information she needs in order to write her paper tomorrow.  Perhaps if she allows herself to pitch forward, landing on the textbook, she can learn through osmosis.  With an exasperated sigh, she gives up and drops the book onto her desk.  She figures she can either go to bed and hope for some kind of divine intervention regarding her reading, or simply not worry about it, allowing herself to slack off just this _once_.  It's a shame Paris isn't there, because she'd twist her arm into finishing, threatening and glaring until Rory did so.  But she's off studying, most likely won't be back to their room until one or two, and that's a few hours from now.  Rory hopes to be in dreamland by then.

So she paces around her room, restless.  The room seems too small for her, and for a moment, she seriously considers going out.  Where, is the million dollar question.  The interior of his apartment flies through her mind, and if it were any other night, she'd go.  Show up outside his door, textbook in hand, and he'd let her spread herself out on the couch, stretching her tired bones.  Two pages in, she'd be asleep, and he'd set the alarm early for the next morning.  

However, she fears he's still mad.  A seething anger that he won't mention, but she'd see it in his eyes.  An unsettling gaze that would make her feel as if he could see her inside out, and sometimes, she thinks he can.  Better to stay here tonight, better to wait out the passing of the storm, better not to think about her hurtful words colliding with his…

There's a knock at the door.

_It's an earth tone, beige, and it reminds her of the walls in old, rundown office buildings.  Cracked and peeling paint, and an overweight, frumpy woman sitting behind the desk.  She's overworked, underpaid, and her kindness was used up hours ago with the first three phone calls.  She's Rory's worst nightmare; stuck in a dead end job, no hope of ever becoming something more, and each passing day is another shovel full of dirt dumped on her grave._

_Jess's opinion is that she's over thinking this, as usual. It's only the color of his bedroom, and he thinks it's the least important room in his apartment in reference to choosing paint colors.  As much time that's spent in there, the lights are always off, so what's the big deal?  She shrugs, staring out the window, eyeing the familiar scenery.  He saw apartments in Woodbridge, Orange, Hamden, and even Stars Hollow, although that was only to humor his uncle.  But somehow, he ended up in New Haven, and each step of the way, he insisted that it was the best of the bunch.  She wonders if he moved there for her; he knows he did._

_She wants to stencil ivy green vines along the tops of his walls, because she's never tried stenciling before, and it seems interesting.  College is all about trying new things, right?  He reminds her that this isn't college, but his 'bachelor pad' (her words, actually, not his), and he will not have flowers all over his bedroom.  When she reminds him that the lights are always off anyway, he rolls his eyes and flicks paint at her.  This move is, naturally, followed by her retaliation, which leads to an all out paint war between the two of them.  The drop cloth, thoughtfully laid down beforehand, is the only thing keeping his recently redone hardwood floors from ruin._

_Suddenly, she's lying on the plastic, looking up at him, because he, not so gracefully, has tackled her to the ground.  They're both covered in paint, playfully touching, but then there's the awkwardness:  not because of now but because of _before._  Friendship works alright for them, now that she's forgiven him, but this kind of close proximity only stirs up faded memories.  It's an old wound ripped open again, bleeding.  But then he's smirking, a familiar glint of mischief shining in his eyes, and a second later, her hair is covered in paint, and tangled, and he's relentless._

_She laughs, wriggles, and the moment is forgotten as the day drags on, melting into afternoon, and then, evening.  By the time they're finished, she thinks that the floor is more covered with paint than the walls._

He's standing in front of her now, and she feels shy and self-conscious, a giggly teenage girl with a crush.  It's strange how he isn't saying anything.  A nod was his form of greeting for the night, and it seems as if it's up to her to get the ball rolling.  Then, she remembers:  she slips the novel out from underneath her textbook, and presents him with it.  A peace offering.  She offers a half smile, and tells him how she saw the book, and it screamed him.

"Literature and Evil?"  He asks.  He wants to laugh at the humor in this.  She read the title and thought of him.  What did that imply?

"It's by Georges Bataille," she explains, even though he already knows this.  The author's name is printed on the front cover, his name bigger than the words in the title.  "He uses other authors' work to prove that 'Literature is not innocent'.  Um, Emily Bronte's in there, and Proust, Blake, Baudelaire —"

He cuts her off, "Didn't Baudelaire write Flowers of Evil?"  She nods.  "Am I sensing a pattern?"

This time her smile is wider, and laced with secrecy, and he has to turn away, choosing to sit on the bed.  She moves closer and flops down next to him, causing a mini earth quake that shakes them both.  The tips of her toes barely brush the floor, and she puts her left hand underneath her head.  Lazy, relaxed, she doesn't even seem to notice that her shirt has ridden up just enough for him to see skin.  Suppressing a sigh, he copies her actions, landing softly, however, and tucking both arms beneath his head.  The book has been discarded off to the side, and this time, she waits for him.  The silence is less charged, and he is hesitant to break it, but knows that he should. 

"I got your message," he begins.  "You lied."

"I really am sorry," she says.  She is.

"Not about that."

"Oh."  She pauses, thinking.  Finally, it clicks, and she feels a small pang.  They were hasty words, but unfortunately, she thinks they were true.  "I don't hate you all the time.  It's just that sometimes you make it really hard to love you."

He is suddenly a hundred times more alert, the word 'love' sending invisible tremors throughout his body.  She's always been so careful about using words like that, ones that carry so much weight, and he's not sure if it's more for his benefit or hers.  She has never uttered it in his presence before, at least, not meaning it this way.  He knows she'll ignore it now, and leave him floundering in this sea of confusion.  It's easier.

"Did you go out last night?"  She asks.  

Out of the corner of her eye, she studies him.  He looks rather beaten down today.  His hair, always sticking this way and that, looks even more tousled than usual.  There is the vague appearance of dark circles beneath his bloodshot eyes, and a patch of stubble on his chin, as if he hasn't shaved in a few days.  She wonders how much sleep he's had lately, and what's he's been up to since their argument, in general.  Sometimes he scares her with his rash actions.  It's all too easy for him to throw caution to the wind.  

"Yup."

"Did you drink?"

"Yup."

"And… did you…"  She trails off, feeling awkward.

"Sleep with anyone?"  He knows it makes her jealous just as he knows that she won't say anything.  That would make her hypocritical, not to mention weak.  "Yeah," he admits.

The affirmation hangs around them, becoming almost tangible.  She would like nothing more to pluck it from the air, and break it apart, have it disintegrate in her hands.  Now images of him and another girl, faceless and nimble, tangled in sheets, dance in her head.  She says nothing, falls into this too realistic fantasy, and not even the knowledge that he was drunk at the time can cushion the blow.  She sucks in a breath, and hopes for a change of subject.

"So, Rory," — sometimes she's sure he can read her mind — "Graduation is less than three months away…"

"I'm patiently waiting for your point."

He turns, a teasing smile fixed on his face, "Soon enough you'll be on your own.  So… what do you want to be when you grow up?"  

It's an excellent alternative to speak about.  The future gives her tingles of excitement.  He knows her well.  "An astronaut."

"Brilliant choice."

"I want to be a journalist.  I always have."  Ever since she was a little girl, it's been the career she's coveted.  Sometimes she regrets not fantasizing about jobs she could never have.  She was never one to waste time on pipe dreams of glamorous movie stars or willowy ballerinas, spinning and twirling along _Swan Lake_.  "What about you?"

"I have no idea," he admits.  "I don't want to grow up."

"Because I'm a Toys R Us kid," she sings.

"When I was a kid, I wanted to be a firefighter."

"Because they bravely face fires and rescue kitties and save lives?"

"No, because they get to slide down those poles."

"I should have guessed.  But really, if it was only for the pole, why not dream of becoming Batman or something?  A pole _and_ a Bat cave," she points out, her tone as logical as she can make it.

"I may have been eight, but I knew superheroes didn't exist."

"A realist, I like that."  

She turns and smiles at him, and there is the faintest hint of a grin on his face.  The fight is officially over now, almost forgotten.  There is no reason to think about his eyes giving her a longing look, asking for more than she can offer.  No need to remember her words, yelling out her hate for him, because sometimes she's so damn confused:  hate or love?  Where's the line?  He'll back off now, she thinks; he'll accept what he has.  He has her, or at least, as much as she can give.

"I should go, it's getting late," he suggests, eyeing the clock.

He sits up, and she follows suit, watching him walk to the door.  She turns and untucks her blanket, preparing to go to sleep.  Fatigue is beginning to overpower her, and she stifles a yawn.  She turns to wish him a goodbye, but then he's beside her bed again, reaching down to take his forgotten book.  

"Jess?"  He looks up.  "Do you want to stay here tonight?"  Her words startle even herself, as she was not planning on asking him this.  But now that it's out there, she's happy her mouth often moves faster than her mind.  She'd like to sleep next to him tonight.  "I don't hate you right now," she teases.

He can only stare, stunned into silence.  He figured they'd speak — which they did — make up indirectly, laugh over random things — check, check — and then he'd leave.  That was the plan.  Why can't she ever follow it?  He's so tired of her games.  She's making up the rules as she goes along.

It's funny.  She may not hate him now, but he's not so sure he doesn't hate her.  She thinks she can only feel that way, unsure of her feelings towards him.  But often he questions just what he's thinking, and it's definitely moments like these.  She's easy to love, and even easier to hate, because she doesn't seem to realize how she's always messing with him, confusing him.  Here she is now, however, sitting on her bed in a tank and shorts, inviting him closer.  He sits back down, mutters some sort of a positive answer to her question, and slips off his shoes, and then his shirt.  She gives him an approving smile, and crawls beneath the covers.

"Paris won't be back for another few hours, and by that point, we'll be asleep, so she won't dare to venture over here.  Something about her fear of finding us naked in bed.  Not that we'll actually be naked but —"

"I'm going to sleep now," he says, sliding in next to her.  "All your rambling has tired me out."

"Funny," she doesn't laugh.  She reaches over him, turns off the tableside lamp, and the room is cast into darkness.  

He's turned away from her, toward the edge, not out of spite, and she knows that.  He prefers almost hanging off the bed, but she's right there, nearly curled into him, her legs bumping his every time she moves.  

"Do you remember her name?"  Her voice is timid in his ear, unsure.

"No."

There's a pause.  "Good."

It's times like these, her warm skin against his, that he forgets the emotion of hate entirely.  He won't recall how she's one of his biggest problems, how the reason he went out drinking in the first place was her.  What would she think of that?  She drives him crazy, out of his mind, but he comes back, she needs him, and sometimes, he's sure he needs her as well.  Why else would he be here now?  These thoughts are quick, already floating away as another takes its place.  He does his best to clear his mind, wishing for peace.  Finally, he begins to drift off to sleep as he feels butterfly wings brush his back, her fingertips tracing the day old scratches that mar him. 

*


	3. Three

**A/N**: The feedback is very much appreciated. Thank you. This chapter should clear some things up. To Mai, who reminded me that I needed to update. To Lee, for being helpful and nice.

**Chapter Three**: _You are calm and reposed_

_Petals, soft and pink; she brings the flowers close to her nose under the pretense of devouring their scent, but really, she likes the way they feel, brushing her face. Closing her eyes, she sees outside, never-ending green fields, and they're like fairy wings, light on her cheek. She blinks, and they're gone with a glittery trail, carried away by the wind. When she takes a step back, she catches him staring at her, his eyes burning. She likes this look, and makes a mental note to keep it as her own secret, locked away in her mind._

_He wants to know if she's gone old fashioned, bringing him flowers (and if so… where the hell is his heart shaped box of chocolates?). She explains that they're a gift for someone's mother — she doesn't say his name, but Jess gets it, he knows who she means — and that it was her job to pick them up. On the way to the apartment, she stopped at a floral shop, and nearly let the polite French owner manipulate her into purchasing outrageously priced roses. Then, Rory had seen the tulips and knew that she had to have those instead. A whole bouquet of them, riding next to her in the front seat, and she's not sure why she brought them inside with her. It's not as if he cares about trivial matters of birthday gifts for people he's never met and never will._

_She watches, transfixed, as he pulls a flower from the bunch. Lightly, she hits his arm, a weak attempt at chastising his actions. He hands her the flower, saying that if she likes them so much, she should keep one. It's not as if anyone will notice one missing. She rolls her eyes and decides not to fight this. Instead, she sits back on his bed, and plucks a petal, twirling it between her fingers. He loves me… he loves me not… He loves me…_

_Before she knows it, the flower is ruined, and petals litter the mattress. He pointedly tells her that she has to clean that up before she leaves, but she's too busy pouting over the loss of her delicate tulip. She looks up and he's standing right in front of her, another flower in his hand. This moment, she'll never forget: a shy boy, young, awkward, offering a flower, and waiting for acceptance. She wouldn't have dared to refuse it, even though it was another one taken from the bunch that was not meant for her. _

_Now there's an idea forming in her mind, and this time she means to shred the tulip, petals everywhere. He protests, of course, but she ignores him. The bouquet thins as his bed becomes covered. Then, she initiates a slow and tender kiss. He returns it, following the pace she has set, and takes small steps toward the bed. He lays her down without breaking contact, and she melts._

_It's the most glorious thing, really: making love on a bed of flowers. It's just the kind of sappy cliché she needs, and it'll stick in her mind, saved right next to that first look he gave her earlier. Sweat turns into an adhesive that causes the petals to stick to her skin, his skin as they roll, twist in sheets that are cooler than their body temperature, so they send shivers up their spine. Later, she'll finally leave after a lingering kiss, a longing look, and few words. She'll arrive at her destination twenty minutes late, without the promised flowers; only a couple of petals still scattered in her hair._

He awakes to blue eyes, and her fingers dancing across his chest. Drawing lines, circles, symmetrical shapes; for all he knows, she woke up as Michelangelo, and was currently repainting the Sistine Chapel across his body. He's caught her doing this before, and has yet to understand her fascination, but he doesn't over-think it. This seems to be his morning wake up call, though. She sits on the edge of the bed, already showered and dressed. He wants to fall back asleep.

"Good almost afternoon," she chirps.

"Rory," he groans. "I'm sleeping."

"You're not sleeping. You're having a conversation with me."

"You call this a conversation?"

"Yes. Yes I do," she answers seriously.

He pulls on her arm, causing her to pitch forward and clumsily land on him. He wraps his arms around her back, almost a bear hug, and he turns so she's lying fully on the bed. He mutters incoherently, something like 'sleep' or 'shhh', and she sighs into him.

"Jess…"

"No energy. I feel like doing absolutely nothing."

"You know, doing is a verb, which implies an action, which means you're obviously _doing_ something. You can't _do_ nothing."

"You have gotta be kidding me…" he mutters. He pushes her away, and flops onto his back. "Leave me alone."

"This is my room. You can't stay here all day."

"Watch me."

"Tana thinks we're sleeping together," she blurts out hoping it'll cause him to move.

"We _are_ sleeping together."

She continues, ignoring his remark, "She came in this morning while I was in the shower and saw you. I feel bad, because Paris said she got all blush-y and nervous, and that her new motto is 'always knock'. Although I really don't see how knocking would have helped in this situation."

"It wouldn't have."

"Come on, get up, it's almost lunch time, and I'm hungry."

"Me too, get me something good from the cafe, will you?"

"Jess!" She stands up and begins to yank on his arm. He is dead weight, however, and remains stubbornly still. Frustrated, she takes his shirt that hangs on her desk chair, and throws it at him. This has absolutely no effect, so she then takes his shoes, and stands over him, holding them threateningly. "These look awfully heavy…" she trails off.

"They're my shoes. I don't think they'll do much damage."

"Alright then," she shrugs. First she moves her hand farther down, so they're now hovering over his lower half. Before he can say anything, she drops them from quite a high altitude: perfect aim, it seems from his painful reaction.

He sits up in bed and chokes out, "That was low."

"Yes, very _low_," she smiles at the double meaning.

He puts his shirt on, glaring at her the entire time. Then he slips on his shoes, and stands up and stretches, arms high in the air. Promptly, he falls back into a sitting position, completely spent from the little movement he just completed. She offers him her hand, and reluctantly, he takes it, allowing her to pull him up.

"Alright, fine, geez, you're so pushy. Now, I believe you mentioned something about food?"

"You only got up for the food, huh?" She asks, hand still in his, turning to walk to the doorway.

"No," he insists sarcastically, "I did it all for you."

"Naturally," she smiles.

He takes a step in front of her, stopping both of them to the side of her closed door. It's comfortable; the atmosphere is light, and she's very happy that he spent the night. If there was any doubt in her mind the night before, there isn't now: everything is fine between them. Everything would continue to be perfectly fine. Now, if only he would stop staring, and lean a bit closer…

A knock at her door.

"Who is it?" She calls out.

"It's Blake."

_She stands very still, deciding that any sudden movement could have a negative effect. Back and forth, her eyes dart between the two men in front of her. They both stand straight to their full height, their gazes smoldering. She's perched by her desk, waiting for one of them to make a move. It reminds of her of a standoff, a gentlemen's duel, and any second now, she's sure that they will turn, and begin to count off. _

_Finally Jess, shorter by three inches, offers his hand. She wants to smile, because he's doing it for her. Hesitantly, Blake takes it, and they shake. This goes on several seconds too long, and it's obvious that they're both testing the other's strength. Eye contact never breaking, Blake nods his head in a form of real acknowledgement, and Jess returns the gesture. They are officially acquainted, and it leaves the most uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. She really wants the two to get along. Finally it's time to leave, but first she hugs Jess goodbye to show that he is a nonnegotiable, permanent fixture in her life. Something Blake cannot change. But once outside, the fresh air filling her lungs, the uneasiness continues to follow her closely, hanging on to her coat sleeves._

Eyes wide, her heart literally skips a beat. Jess doesn't look quite as alarmed — he's more pissed off than anything else. She has exactly three seconds to push him back a couple of steps. Then the door swings open, hiding her right hand, which still rests on his chest. She grabs the doorknob with her left, and offers a thousand watt smile for her boyfriend.

"Hey Blake, what are you doing here?"

"I thought I'd take you out for the day," he grins.

Jess holds his breath. At the sound of the man's voice, his hand instinctively moves up, and grabs Rory's wrist, his grip loose. Even though he can't see him, he can still imagine Blake in his mind: khakis and a T-shirt, his appearance never altered. He has a face that seems to belong in the past; a man in a tux, a cigar hanging out of his mouth, martini in hand, sitting in the Gentlemen's Smoking Lounge. Jess could picture him playing cards and tipping the waitress, because her shirt hung lower than the rest: Blake, a man of money, spending his time flitting away cash he didn't need in poker games. It fit. However, in the twenty-first century, a man of his age couldn't be idle. He's a senior at Yale, interning at his father's company in his spare time. One day he'll take over, become the head honcho who has more money than he knows what to do with. Jess wouldn't expect anything less.

"I have a paper to write today," Rory says, apologetically. "I really can't."

"How about you come out for the afternoon, and I'll drop you off for dinner?"

She sighs and glances down, knowing she shouldn't agree. She can feel Jess stroking her hand, and she wonders if he even realizes he's doing it. Any second now, she expects him to cough, to speak, to _breathe_, and then he'll be discovered. It's bizarre that Blake hasn't found the fact that her right hand is hidden odd. Maybe he believes it's just resting on the other side of the door; her fingers tracing invisible hearts on the wood: RG plus BL forever and always…

"I guess, but you have to drop me off for an _early_ dinner. I still have some reading to do, and then the actual paper…"

"Sounds like a plan," he smiles before leaning down. His hand lands on her cheek, and he kisses her gently. As his tongue enters her mouth, she flattens her palm against Jess's chest, so she can feel his heartbeat.


	4. Four

**A/N**:  Thanks, as always, for the feedback.  This chapter should clear just about everything up.  I heart Lee for her wonderful betaing skills, her tendency to smack me over the head because of tenses (it really does make editing more fun), and her near incoherence when making comments about this chapter.  Heh.

**Chapter Four**:  _A heart that's harder than stone_

_She searches for the North Star, her body screaming for some type of familiarity in this alien situation.  She can't find it; even the Big Dipper is lost among the masses tonight.  She sighs inwardly and fidgets, the hood of his car hard and uncomfortable beneath her.  Out of the corner of her eye, she looks his way and finds him staring up at the sky.  But then he senses her gaze and turns his head, only startling her into looking back up._

_She regrets her actions from four nights before, her ultimate moment of weakness that he could not recognize nor turn down.  She had been upset, crying, and he had only been trying to help.  But then she had given into to that small flame burning bright within her, burgeoning as he touched her.  _

_Now, she is at a loss._

_Jess speaks, interrupting her thoughts, asking if she has ever seen 'The __Phoenix__'.  There is a small sense of remembrance, but she shakes her head, unable to fully recall the constellation.  He explains its myth to her, the beautiful bird that lives for hundreds of years before bursting into a conflagration, completely consumed.  He tells her how a small worm crawls from the detritus, to grow again; begin anew._

_She meets his gaze, asking in a strained voice if he can find it tonight.  He can't.  But it's just as well, she prefers the story over a visual, not needing to see the outline of stars to understand the meaning.  Carefully, she sifts through the scattered ashes of their relationship, looking for a clue.  Maybe something will come from this.  Maybe this is the new beginning she needs.  _

_She props herself up on her elbow.  He appears hesitant but doesn't move away.  Holding her breath, she leans down to kiss him, and the stars explode._

Blake is charming and charismatic.  He has one of those vortex-like personalities that sucks a person in.  He seems genuine and maybe he is, but Rory's been around him for so long she can no longer tell.  He's very handsome and polite, raised on the firm beliefs of 'etiquette' and 'propriety' but most of all:  power.  Money is power, and Blake loves money.  He certainly has plenty of it, and he doesn't mind spending it.

When she asks, he always delivers.  He likes to buy her things, pretty things:  pearls, silver and gold.  She doesn't like jewelry very much and she told him so, early on in the relationship.  He waved off the absurd statement because, after all, "Diamonds are a girls' best friend."  It's not as if she can very well _complain_ about being showered with gifts, so she accepts each with a coy smile and a lingering kiss, and drops each new trinket into a jewelry box – most likely never to see the light of day again. 

In the beginning, this tradition of gifts was almost a form of bribery, an attempt to gain her admiration and eventually, love.  Those three words were whispered long ago in a moment where she lost her head, however, and once they're out there, that's it.  That type of declaration holds a vast amount of weight, and cannot so easily be stricken from the record.  So when he whispered it back, and kissed her softly, she relented.  Whenever he says it, she stands tightlipped, needle pricks of regret poking at her chest, but she repeats it.  She always repeats it.

Nowadays she is much more careful about throwing around such words.

Once in a while, though, it'll slip with Jess.  Maybe she is.  But it's a tangled web of what if's and could have been's and most of all – not's.  He's not, she's not, they're not.  Who knows where they'd be today if he had never run off to California.  Perhaps then the undefined shape of their relationship would have a body, tangible and strong.  But he did leave, returning in her sophomore year, doing his best to repent, molding their new relationship into that tired old question of 'maybe'.  They flicker between friendship and much more, and there's that line again; thin, and stretched too tightly.  She's tired of straddling it.

But right now the issue isn't him.  Even though his face is ever-present in the back of her mind, she tries her best to blur his picture when she's out with Blake.  She almost hates herself for pretending with Blake, but what they have is not meant to suddenly be broken for some man she _used_ to date.  One that is going nowhere, and even though he had made some detour off his self-destructive path, he still isn't much better off.

She tried to end it though, her and Blake, right after she first slept with Jess.  She would have simply confessed and apologized to him, hoping to repair the fractures it would undoubtedly cause, if the act had simply stemmed from a loss of self-control brought on by her complete frustration with her boyfriend.  But it is more than that.  There is possibility and unfinished business left over from years ago.  She thinks she wants to explore that.  She thinks she wants him.

However, unable to take her problem to Lorelai, Rory had instead voiced her decision to break up with Blake to her grandmother (minus the full reason why).  Here, she realized how impossible this would be, how her grandparents wanted her and Blake to last.  It was why they had set them up all the way back in her freshman year.  Blake is _good _for her, they said.  He's too wonderful to let go!

Rory could only imagine their reaction to the news that the reason she wanted to ditch her Yalie boyfriend was a guy who had broken her heart, and left without a goodbye back in high school.  Better to stay with Blake and not disappoint the people she loved, the people who had been financing her education for the past seven years.

Right.  The money.

The biting feeling is ubiquitous; and it's stronger whenever she visits for Friday night dinners, or sees them at banquets, parties, anything.  They paid for her education, and she owes them.  She's in their debt.  They are polite, accepting, kind, but she's in their world now.  Finally she knows, she understands, what Lorelai has always said.  She may love her grandparents, but she never meant to become trapped.  Dating Blake is one of the obligations that come along with attending Yale.  That's that. 

It all seems unfair to her, this term in small print that she overlooked when she signed herself away to them four years ago.  The anger that is stirred up at this blots the guilt out, so that when she kisses Jess, she can breathe easy afterwards.  Seeing him is almost her revenge, her loophole to all of this, except it's more than that.  It's the first layer in something that could be wonderful and amazing unlike back in high school.

But right now, she's with Blake.  He is someone she can often only take in small doses, someone she can't picture being with long-term, contradicting their entire relationship.  He has an irritating need to be in constant control, and it drives her crazy.  Often they collide over the issue.  He has a short fuse as well, and when he's angry at someone or something she can sometimes be caught in the crossfire.  So they'll fight, and she'll leave, swearing to herself that she's fine.  But she almost always dissolves into tears halfway to Jess's apartment, and she doesn't understand why.  Arguments with Blake are not that effective.  The two of them always make up, although it's a constant headache to deal with.  But Jess is always there, and he'll sit there quietly with her, a silent source of comfort that she desperately needs. 

Then everything changed, but in the big picture, it's all the same.  They do not have each other — not completely.  There's always a lurking 'almost'.  One that Jess finally grew tired of.  He wants all of her, and she simply can't give it… so they fought.  She hates him, she loves him, but he only gets to hear the former.  But everything is fine now.  They've made up.  Nothing to worry about…

"Are you listening to me?"

"I'm hanging on your every word," she smiles.

Blake turns his head slightly to look at her, before throwing his attention back to the road.  "Of course you are, because I'm simply fascinating," he teases.

"Enthralling."

"Riveting."

"Enchanting."

"You want me to repeat what I just said?"  He asks.

"If it's something important, then yes, I suppose that'd be a good idea."

"I swear you have adult ADD."

"Thank you, Blake, may I have another?"

"Not the kind of compliment you were looking for?"

"That wasn't a compliment.  That was insulting."

"You're beautiful?"

She pats him on the shoulder playfully, "Better."

"This Friday night is Gwen's birthday.  You remember Gwen, right?"

She pauses to flip through a mental catalogue of faces.  A list of names accompanies the pictures, but she often has trouble matching them.  There's too many, and she doesn't care enough to remember each and every one.  Finally, a small amount of recollection surfaces, and she shrugs.  "Yup."

"Her birthday is this weekend, so her husband is throwing her a party.  Your grandparents are attending —"

"Which means that I'm going…"

"Which then means you're dragging me along too," he jokes.

"That is how it usually works out."

"I figured we could buy her a nice bouquet of flowers, which _I_ will pick up.  Last time I asked you to, you showed up flowerless."

"I just forgot them.  I didn't mean to," she lies.

"I know, I know.  But imagine showing up to your own mother's birthday without a gift."

"Who buys their mother flowers, anyway?" 

"Excuse me?"  He asks, a hint of annoyance shining through.

"Nothing, don't worry about it.  You worry about this weekend, and I'll just show up."

"I always buy her flowers."

"Alright."

"It's what she likes."

"Blake," she says, "I need to get back to the dorm now.  I've got that paper to write."

"Already?  I wish you had written it earlier."

"Yeah.  Me too."

"Hey, why don't we just pick up your books and laptop, and you can finish up at my place?" 

"Because I'd rather just go back to my room."

"Are you mad or something?"

"Or something," she mutters. 

_Her heart flutters as their hands brush when they both reach for the last roll.  He grins and says she can have it, and she blushes a thank you.  At the opposite end of the table, her grandmother watches this exchange with hope and amusement.  This dinner is going much better than she expected, although Lorelai has a permanent frown etched on her face.  She doesn't seem to think this set-up is such a genius idea.  It doesn't matter, however, because Rory seems smitten, and Blake fell under her blue-eyed spell when they first said hello hours earlier.  Part of this arrangement is meant to pull Rory out of the haze that surrounds her; one that has been present since Jess's unceremonious departure.  She says she's fine, and she seems it, but you can never be sure sometimes.  But it's not just that.  Emily thinks they'll make a wonderful match; they'll make each other happy.  It's perfect.  When Blake first agreed to attend this dinner, he promised he'd ask Rory out.  And now to see them interacting, it's almost certain that she'll say yes._

Passion is a key ingredient in any relationship.  Safety and certainty come later when the tingles fade and the butterflies die.  She runs her fingers down his arm.  He's warm, she's cold, but nonetheless, she can feel herself recoiling.  Their flame died out long ago, way too early on.  He can't make her blush now if he tried. 

Then there's Jess.  His hands on her shoulders, back, hips, slipping further… Maybe passion is overrated.  Blake is certainty; a sure thing.  Jess is utterly ambiguous, and eventually even feelings for him will fade.  She loves touching him, she loves kissing him, she loves his mouth and hands, but what about everything else?  Even when they dated as teenagers, there was that constant worry that the mental aspect of their relationship was too easily overlooked.  But they always start out as friends, and even now, he's always there for her — to talk, to listen.  Her brow furrows.

Maybe.  Maybe she is.

She turns away to hang over the edge of the bed.  The faintest hint of his cologne lingers on her pillow from the night before, and she inhales slowly, allowing the drug to sweep her away.  She curls into herself, eyes now on her open laptop, resting on her desk.  Her paper's finished, has been for the past hour.  She sat there and typed while Blake massaged her shoulders, went through her book collection, laid on her bed.  He fell asleep somewhere along page five, so upon completion, she took her place next to him.  But now she is wide awake and restless.

Quietly, she slips out of bed.  She walks out into the common room and picks up the phone.  She lies down on the couch, and dials the familiar number.  It rings six times before he finally picks up.

"What?"  A drowsy voice demands.

"Hi, Jess."

"Rory?"

"Good guess.  Did you work tonight?"  She asks.

"I did.  I just got home a half hour ago, and I was planning on doing this common tradition called sleep…"

"So you're half awake and most likely half drunk," she states.

"That's a serious accusation."

"So you're perfectly sober?"

"I'm a bartender.  Coming home sober isn't an option."

"Okay, I was just curious."

"Rory, don't tell me you called just to find out what kind of state of mind I'm in."

"Alright, I won't tell you."

"Geez, it's like…"

"Four in the morning?"  She offers.

"I hate you."

"That's nice to know," she says, "because I love you."  The words float from her mouth easily, as if she tells him all the time.  It's not as hard as she thought it'd be. 

"What?"

"I was just lying in bed, and I couldn't sleep, so I was thinking… And I just wanted to call and tell you before I forgot the words."

"Rory," he begins.

"Don't worry about it.  It's not like you'll remember this conversation in the morning.  Goodnight, Jess," she hangs up before he can say another word.

She heads back to her room, and crawls into bed.  Her mind is slower now, not thinking about what she has just done.  A lethargic feeling creeps up on her, causing her body to sink deeper into the mattress, and her eyes immediately close.  Before sleep fully takes her, she buries her face into her pillow.  She breathes in. 


	5. Five

**A/N**:  Thanks so much for all the feedback!  Thanks to Jewls for the helpful facts, and thanks to Ari, my wonderful speed racer beta, who is _amazing_.

**Chapter Five**:  _And it hurts a whole lot_

He watches her hurry through the room, back and forth between closet and bureau.  She is lithe, graceful, and he thinks that all he has to do is say her name to break her concentration and cause her to trip.  She wears composure well, but he prefers a blush reddening her cheeks.  It makes her look embarrassed and girlish; there's a flicker of the naïveté she used to possess as a teenager. 

His mouth forms the two syllables, but before he can voice her name, she says his.

"Jess, can you help me?"  She stands in front of her mirror, clothed in a pearl colored dress.  He stands up and moves behind her as she curls her hair around the side of her neck.  "Please," she adds politely.

His fingers barely touch her skin, as they slide down her back.  He begins to zip the dress, lightly tracing the curve of her spine as he moves steadily upward.  When he finishes, he gently pokes in her the back, smirking.

"You should skip tonight."

"I can't.  Besides, you have work.  I think your boss would frown upon you calling out on a Friday night."

"He doesn't seem to mind me showing up late though."

"When are you supposed to be there?"  She asks, sitting on her bed.

"Ten minutes ago?"  He feigns confusion and sits down across from her.

"You're going to get fired."

"Hasn't happened yet.  Greg would never fire me, I make him too much money."

"I knew it!  You're a gigolo too, aren't you?"

"I would be offended but I'm too busy being upset that this is not the first time someone has accused me of that."

She smiles, leaning down to pick up her shoes for the evening.  Halfway down, she straightens back up, frowning.  "I don't think I'm meant to bend over in this dress."  She pauses.  "Please, whatever lewd remark that just popped into your mind, keep to yourself."

"I have no idea what you're getting at.  Your mind's in the gutter."

"Help me?"

"Again?" he asks in mock frustration, reaching for her heels. 

He sets them next to him, and she lifts her leg, resting it on his lap.  "Well, if the whole sleeping with women for money thing doesn't work out, you'd make a good butler."

"Stop having fun with this, or I'll let you go barefoot," he warns, slipping the shoe on her outstretched foot.  As he begins his work on the straps, he continues, "And stop with the gigolo crap, it's degrading."

"Having trouble?"

"Shut up," he mutters.  "These shoes are complicated.  I think they're purposely designed to confuse men."

"You are now fifteen minutes late."

"Yeah, well, as long as I provide excellent service, my job will be safe for another week.  It seems that I attract a high number of women to the bar, increasing profit and my likeability with the boss."

"Encouraging drinking among the female population.  I'm proud."

He buckles the strap, and she drops her leg to the ground, swinging the other up.  "Yeah, well, they like to buy me a drink too, so once again, more business."

"You're not allowed to drink on the job."

"You ever see _Coyote Ugly_?"

"You don't do that," she laughs.

"What, strip?  No, of course not, that's off hours."

"No, not strip.  I know what you meant… the beer bottle, right?  That's so not you.  Like you would ever spit out a drink."

There's something there, an underlying layer in her teasing.  It's an implication.  He looks up at her, allowing the straps to slip out of his grip.  His hand falls onto her ankle, and he squeezes with just enough pressure to alert her to the change of mood.  "What'd you mean by that?"

"I didn't mean anything, I was just… kidding."  He stares, waiting.  Uncomfortable, she continues, "It sparked something with you."

"Don't turn this around."

"Will you please finish?  Blake's going to be here soon."

He scowls before turning his attention back to her shoe, oblivious to his own obedience.  A moment of silence passes as he finishes, but does not remove his hands from her ankle.  He begins to rub small circles on her leg, the stocking smooth beneath his fingertips, as he tries to curb the curt remarks swirling inside his head.

"I just worry sometimes," she admits, quietly. 

He glances at her, and moves his fingers further up her leg as he slides off the bed.  He kneels in front of her and inches closer, his hand still exploring. 

"You need to not worry," he says, his body landing in-between her legs, his waist flat against her bed. 

"It's what I do," she reminds him.

He kisses her slowly, swallowing her timid words.  He teases her with the agonizing pace, until finally, she grabs the back of his neck, pulling him closer.  He uses both of his hands as leverage, steadying himself by placing each on opposite sides of her. 

"Jess," she mumbles against his lips in attempt to stop this.  He misinterprets her voice, and instead kisses her throat, enjoying the hum against his mouth as she repeats his name.  His tongue flicks out, catching her sensitive skin, and she lets out a small gasp.  He finds his way to her collarbone, thoughts of work and her party disappearing from his head.

"Jess," she repeats one final time.  "Do you ever think about what it'd be like now if you never went to California?"

The question is a curveball that causes him to stiffen against her.  He is unsure if the inspiration for this inquiry is her attempt to stop his actions, or if she is genuinely curious.  He tries to stand up, but she pushes back down on his shoulders, so he's directly in front of her again.  He refuses to meet her eyes, and she frowns.

"Jess."

"No."

"You can't lie to me anymore.  I've perfected the art of reading between the lines."

"I don't," he lies straight to her face, but she doesn't flinch.  Her eyes lock with his; she refuses to back down.  He gives in first, uncomfortable underneath her scrutinizing stare, and stands up.  He kisses the top of her head to quell whatever anger his lack of cooperation has stirred up, and takes a step back.  "I've got to get to work."

"Sure."

"Night, Rory."  He goes to leave, and opens the door just as there is a knock.  Blake stands on the other side, his hand still poised in midair.

"What are you doing here?"  Blake asks at first sight.

"Just watching your girlfriend get dressed."  He looks back at Rory, "Good show."

She shows no reaction of either laughter or anger causing Jess to turn and leave promptly, needing to get away from her.  He shuts the door behind him, and Blake takes Jess's former position on the bed across from her.

"I don't like him."

"I know.  You tell me that every time you see him.  He just has an offbeat sense of humor," she says.

"I still don't."

"I still know."

"Ready to go?"

She nods, "Yeah." 

She stands up, the blood rushing to her head, leaving behind a floating sensation that turns her stomach.  A flow of heat runs down her arms, bringing with it pins and needles, and she frowns.  As she walks over to her bureau to fetch her purse, she feels her movement impeded.  She grips the edge of her dresser to steady herself.  It's a malformed version of guilt, not quite striking the right chord, but not leaving her untouched either.  She bites her bottom lip, still tasting Jess there.  She applies lipstick in the mirror to rid herself of him, taking enough time for the uneasiness to subside.  Blake comes up behind her and gently kisses her temple.  She smiles. 

"Let's go."

_They're in front of Luke's when Blake pauses to kiss her, freezing them in the picture frame of the window.  Only a moment passes before he pulls away, ready to head into the diner.  She turns her head as they walk and catches sight of Jess, seated at a random table, openly staring at her.  She is unsure whether the expression on his face is from witnessing the kiss, or simply from seeing her after all this time.  _

_She is not expecting this sudden appearance, not after almost two years without a note or phone call to link the months together.  A mix of anger and sadness launches her heart into her throat, but she feigns composure, pretending she is unaffected, blind to his return.  She ignores the sting of uneasy excitement that runs up and down her rib cage, and instead grips Blake's hand, explaining that she wants to bring him somewhere new tonight.  They eat pizza at a nearby restaurant, and he never questions why._

"Tonight is never going to end," Rory mutters under her breath, surveying the room.

Groups of people are scattered about with a few go-betweens mingling with everyone.  Most have a drink in hand, holding it loosely, the wine inside sloshing with each movement.  Rory now understands the need for the waiters moving around, offering drinks:  there simply isn't anything other to do then sip from a glass.  Talking is the only alternative, and she finds that she'd rather throw herself off the roof then hold a conversation with most of the people in the room.

Many had approached her at one point, ready to strike up a new thread of dialogue.  They always opened with an inquiry about school, and her impending graduation.  Half the time, she lets her mind wander because the questions are always the same, with a few interchangeable words.  Her responses are all too rehearsed, slipping out with barely any effort.  Her cheekbones ache from the consistent smiling she has kept up, and she wishes that someone with a personality would find her standing in this corner.  She wants Blake to reappear from the room he headed into with a few of his friends.  At least he can carry a real conversation.

Her savior appears in the form of a waiter.  She smiles at him as she picks up a glass of champagne, and finishes it in three gulps.  He leaves her with another one before whisking off to serve the rest of the masses; they all need to have a fallback.

"Rory, there you are!"

She turns at the sound of her name, and this time her smile comes easily, brightening her face.  "Hi, Grandpa."

"It's so wonderful that you could make it tonight."

"It's a Friday, I wouldn't dream of missing this," she assures him.

"I would have made an excuse for you if Emily hadn't insisted you and Blake attend.  I know how incredibly dull these get-togethers can be.  Now, how bored are you?  Don't hold back."

"There are seven hundred and forty three dangling crystal things in that chandelier."

"My god, I hope you're making that up."

"I really wish I were," she teases.

"As long as we keep this conversation up, we should be safe from counting any other arbitrary items hanging around here."

"Good thinking.  Although I'm already up to seven fake hairpieces, I guess it would be better to stop here."

Richard lets out a small chuckle, beaming at his granddaughter.  "I can assure you that there are at least a dozen here, not counting the men.  But moving on, I've wanted to ask you:  Have you been making plans for what you'll be doing after graduation?"

"I've been looking through newspapers, researching certain companies."

"Any particular area?"

"New York City."

"Ah, of course.  Where else would a young, inexperienced reporter go?  I hope you'll be down to visit once in a while."

"Of course," she says, surprised that he would think otherwise. 

"Good evening, Richard," a voice breaks in. 

Suddenly, Blake is at her side with his arm around her waist, nodding at her grandfather.  Richard forces a smile, his trademark look for every man she has ever dated.  She likes that he never seemed to be as smitten with Blake as her grandmother immediately was.

"Blake," Richard acknowledges him.  "I've got to get going, business to do."

As soon as he wanders off, Emily takes his place, as if she had been waiting in the wings for her cue.

"Hi, Grandma."

"Emily."

"Rory, Blake, how nice of you two to make it."  No sooner is her greeting out of her mouth than she launches into a story that Rory can barely follow.  It is more directed to Blake anyway, something about his father and the company.  Rory tunes them out and looks back around the room, and spots an elderly man, his pants too long, his sleeves too short.  She eyes his graying hair, darker at the top of his head, and grins.  Number eight.

She then finds Richard looking over at her, inconspicuously gesturing to the man she had previously been studying.  She smiles, and giggles inwardly, and watches her grandfather continue his trek through the room, stopping intermittently to hold a conversation.  He fiddles with his tie as the others speak, and she frowns at his fidgeting.  She snaps back to attention when she hears her name, and finds both Blake and Emily staring at her.

"ADD kicking in again?" 

"Yes," Rory affirms.

"ADD?  What is he talking about?"  Emily asks.

"I have no idea.  I usually only understand every other word," Rory says.  "Grandpa looks tired."

"He is.  I've been telling him that he needs more sleep, but he's always busy on the phone or at the office.  He never tells me what's going on that is so important that he needs to stop performing the necessities of life."

"Oh."  Rory nods.  She tilts her head down slightly, trying to unnoticeably study Blake's watch.  She can't read it from this angle.  "Is Mom here tonight?"

She asks even though she knows the answer.  Lorelai hasn't been to a Friday night dinner in ages, but still, there is an occasion when she allows herself to be roped into one of these functions.  Even though there is strain present in the conversation, and the words never seem right.

"No, I invited her, but she said had inn work."

The inn is the number one excuse.  "Oh."  She's a broken record tonight.  "Excuse me," she says politely, kissing Blake on the cheek before walking off.

She wanders down the hall, the lights becoming dimmer the farther she goes.  Technically, this is a no trespassing zone; it's rude to wander off in the middle of a party, especially through the host's house.  But the uncertainty is exciting, and she holds her breath as she tries each door.  A bathroom, a bedroom, an office… she hopes to find a doorway that will lead her back into her dorm room, hours earlier, before Jess left so quickly.  She wants to take back her question, and her comment on his work, but instead settles for the library that she finds on her fifth try.

She shuts the door behind her, and basks in the comfort of the most familiar place in this foreign territory.  She seats herself on a couch, lifting up the book that rests on the cushion next to her.  Without checking the title, she opens it to read, pushing thoughts of Jess and her mother out of her mind.  Minutes slip away from her as she becomes enraptured by the nameless novel.  She spends the rest of the evening with the book in one hand, a drink in the other.

_Jess watches her as she moves from the small round bottle, back to her toes.  Suddenly, she looks up at him, frowning, and orders him to stop staring.  His gaze is not only distracting, but he's going to cause her to mess up.  He doesn't understand this vain activity anyway; it' s the middle of winter, why the red nail polish?  Calmly, she explains that she's reliving a tradition:  private school girls are bad, and bad girls wear red nail polish.  There's a nostalgic feeling tonight, she misses her Chilton days._

_He recognizes her explanation; not the exact saying, but the flavor to it.  It sounds like Lorelai, and he begins to wonder if Chilton is the only thing she misses.  If she really longs for it at all.  He moves behind her, and sits on the bed.  Watching her from this angle is easier; her back is to him.  _

_He suddenly hears himself telling Rory to call her.  He knew that it was the right thing to suggest, but does not remember deciding to voice it.  He sees her sit up, her shoulders square, her hand frozen in its current position.  Finally, she shakes her head and goes back to painting.  He stands up and walks over to her, and lightly rests his hand on her back.  After no reaction, he tucks her hair behind her ear, so the strands don't catch on the tears that weren't supposed to slip out._

It is on his mind throughout the night; it won't go away.  The tune is as constant as the hate he sometimes can never get out of his head.  But this is fear.  This is uneasiness, doubt.  This is the assurance that the two of them will never work.  Their fight from the week before seemed solved and laid to rest, no need to linger on a closed case.  But it reopened tonight with her question about California.  How could he tell her that while he regrets the way he left, he doesn't regret doing it?  A part of him remains in Venice Beach, calling him back with each breath, asking if he remembers how good it was there.  That clean slate that he was handed, the one he used to his advantage.

Happiness is only three thousand miles away.

With Rory here, he cannot picture going back, not for an extended period of time.  But sometimes the longing hits hard, and he can't believe he's sticking around for a girl that's not even his.  Her question tonight, the unresolved issue of last week's fight… it never goes away.  It is a ghost that haunts him always, reminding him of what he has lost, and what he can't get back.

It is an extra chip on his shoulder that he doesn't need.  He still wants her, but he doesn't want this.  He thinks he can give her up if it'll make his life easier.  He'll try.

She walks in much later, past closing time.  She stops at the bar, and smiles at him, and he wants to hate her.  She has everything, while he's stuck on the sidelines, trying to keep the pieces of his life together. 

"Hey, Frank, let's play a game called 'don't sexually harass the brunette that just walked in'.  If you win, I won't beat the shit out of you, okay?"  Jess warns the man perched on the stool in front of him.  A grunt is the only answer he gets.

"Is that how you treat your customers?"  Rory asks, already having moved several steps away, after she caught the man staring too long.

"Only the ones who stay until last call.  They linger, and they piss me off.  Frank, I'm talking to you."

No response.

Great.

"Alright, we're closed.  Get out."  Jess walks out from behind the bar, and grabs Rory's elbow and leads her off to another part of the restaurant, down a short hallway leading to the kitchen and backroom.  It's empty; the bar is the only thing that stays open this late.  "He'll either drink himself to death now that I'm no longer standing guard, or he'll go home.  I already called for a taxi."

"You're so caring."

"Yeah, a heart of —"  His response is cut short by her lips, as she leans into him, the kiss urgent. 

Instinct pulls him in, and he responds immediately, pushing her into the wall.  Her hands meet behind his neck, before slipping down to his tucked-in shirt.  She tugs a portion from his pants, and slinks her fingers up to his chest, hitting an undershirt instead of skin.  He grips her shoulder, and presses harder against her, molding her into the wallpaper.  The pressure is so intense, she finds herself trying to breathe through him.

He cuts the kiss short, and rests his forehead against hers, breathing heavily.  Her hand slides down to his pants, and she threads her fingers over the top.  She tilts her head up, ready to resume the kiss, but he takes a step back, causing her hand to drop back to her side. 

"Rory," he begins.

The room tilts; she sees it right away.  "What are you doing?"

"I want to say breaking-up, but we'd have to actually be dating in order for that to work."

"Jess…"

"I don't want to do this anymore."

"What are you talking about?  You just…"

"You kissed me," he corrects.

"And you kissed me back.  What, were you being polite?  If we had been at your apartment instead, would you have given me pity sex just because I initiated it?  What is wrong with you?"

"I'm sorry."

"I don't understand," she says.

"Come on, how long did you think this would last?"

"God, Jess, this is sounding a bit like the fight we had a couple of weeks ago.  I thought we already worked through this.  You know I can't —"

"I know you can't.  Neither can I.  Not anymore."

His words carry her out of the small hallway, and she bursts through the restaurant door.  The cool night air doesn't penetrate; she's too numb.  She climbs into her car, and starts it, wasting no time in getting the hell out of the parking lot.  She doesn't notice that she is crying until she is halfway back to her dorm, and the acid teardrops burn her tongue.  She thinks of cigarette smoke, his mouth stained with the taste.  And it hurts.


	6. Six

**A/N**: Wow, thanks so much for the feedback. And a huge thanks and a giant cookie to whoever nominated this fic over at the P&P Awards. It's all very much appreciated. Also, huge thanks to Lee for the beta.

**Chapter Six**: _But it's missed when it's gone_

Instead of coming to terms with the exact reason why he now has so much time on his hands, Jess begins to pick up extra shifts whenever possible. He keeps his usual hours of bartending on the weekends and select weekday nights. He has always had the tendency to play waiter; however, these occurrences are usually limited to only a couple of times a week. Now, he finds himself filling his mornings with the slow brunch pace, and his evenings with the dinner rush. He serves families of four in the outside area under blue umbrellas that are of the giant variety, designed to keep the customers in a constant shade. He fetches clean silverware for anxiety-ridden mothers, and an extra beer for the on-edge fathers. In the back, he finds broken crayons for the kids to color with, only to throw the sloppy drawings of mutant dogs and superheroes away later with the rest of the half-eaten meal.

At night, he wards off assholes who believe that for one reason or another, they should be served first, and quickly, mind you; the kind of people who specifically ask for their drinks to be strong, as if Jess actually makes anything else. He works fast, thinking that at least this is better than his afternoons of mind-numbing happy America. Afternoons he almost never had to deal with before; people he almost never had to socialize with.

It hits hard, this realization. It had swum in the back of his mind, implanted years ago, but grew with time. Finally, after two weeks without Rory or anything else he considers substantial enough, it becomes crystal clear, flashing at him with neon lights: his life is merely a series of distractions. California had been real, a place brimming with opportunities for him; friends and an almost family that had treated him as if the relationship wasn't entirely artificial. Rory had been real, or at least, real enough, taking and taking from him. Sometimes though, she had given, and when she had, it had always been good.

He thinks maybe he's waiting for something; something better, or something _more_, and until then, he will simply continue finding ways to fill his time. His job has become almost his entire life, with an acquaintance here and there and a book or a party to break up the monotony. But essentially, up until a couple of weeks ago, his life had been Rory and work. Now, there is no balance.

With the scale tipped in favor of drinking and serving the masses, he mixes a tequila sunrise, and places it in on the bar. The waiting man takes a sip and walks off, and it's another couple of dollars in Jess's pocket.

"Hey there," a nearby male coos, puckering his lips, "got a light?"

"I reserve the right to smash your head in if you try to flirt with me," Jess warns pointedly.

The man slips onto a barstool and grins. "I've had a bad day… don't you want to hear about it?"

"Fuck you."

"Alright, sorry miss, don't get your panties in a twist. I'm just trying to lighten up your gloomy night. Rumor has it you finally dumped that rich bitch girlfriend."

Jess scowls at his friend, Len. This guy has no idea when his opinions and mere existence are not wanted. "One, you're slow on the rumor mill. Two, we weren't dating."

"Hey, I've had classes and you've been stealing all my shifts. If I'm never down here, I never get to hear the latest news. And that's bull. You two _were _dating, or at the very least, sleeping together."

Before Jess can respond, a sharp whistle cuts through the air, coming from a new customer that stands only a foot away. Immediately, Jess's face transforms into a mask of irritation.

"Here, Lassie," Len teases.

Jess pulls away and walks over to the man, a smile plastered on his face. "Can I help you, sir?" His delivery is exaggerated, and slightly disturbing to anyone who knows his usual disposition. The man shoots off his order, and Jess delivers, his pace slower, almost as if the easy movements require too much energy. He doesn't get a tip.

"Judging by how your tolerance for idiots is even lower than usual tonight, I say you need something really good right about now," Len observes, shifting in his seat.

"Are you going to give me advice or something? I'm warning you I can and will kick you out of here."

"You will not. You like having me around."

"I tolerate you," Jess says. "And I only do that so I can steal your shifts."

"Yeah, about that… when am I working again? I think I've been here for employment reasons only twice in the past couple of weeks."

"You don't need to work here. You go to Yale."

"How do you think I'm putting myself through Yale?"

"Your parents are paying for it. The same parents who send you monthly allowances. _Allowances_," he enunciates, the word sounding ridiculous to his ears. "Jesus, Len, you really don't need this money."

"Fair enough," he shrugs, the comments rolling right off his back. "But I happen to like bartending."

"Too bad."

"You're an asshole, but for some reason, I like you. So I'm going to help you."

"Are we back to this?"

"Shut up. I'm going to find you a girlfriend," Len answers, a goofy grin spreading across his face.

Jess groans, once again questioning his friendship with this lunatic. He is merely a friend through work, an acquaintance of convenience. Len gives up his shifts to Jess on a regular basis, never minding too much due to his constant college workload, and the fact that money has never been a particularly large problem for him. These two characteristics of money and Yale normally would have turned Jess off from a person, as he really got enough of both from Rory. But somehow, the friendship continues through a haze of mild annoyance (Jess) and a carefree attitude (Len).

"I'm not exactly in the market for a girlfriend, but thanks so much for the offer." Jess shoots him down quickly with mild sarcasm to boot.

"Hey, if what you say is true that you and that Rory chick weren't dating that means you haven't had a girlfriend in…"

"A real long time?" Jess supplies.

"Exactly. Don't you miss having a caring, healthy symbiotic relationship in which you can give yourself fully, and wholly to one woman, and she too will return —"

He pauses as a woman saunters up next to him, resting her hands lightly on the bar top. Under the pale lights overhead, she looks younger than she is, her eyes wide and green, her blonde hair turned a dirty dishwater color. She is a mild kind of pretty, just enough to get a person to look twice. She slips her license onto the surface in front of her.

"You're hot," Len states, still stuck on giving her a once over.

The woman starts, instinctively moving further away from him. "Excuse me?"

"Wait," Jess cuts in. "He thinks this'll actually get him somewhere. I want to see where he goes with this."

The woman shoots Jess a look, a mix of disbelief and annoyance. He smirks in response, letting her in on the joke, and reluctantly, she gives him a smile.

"Hey, I'll have you know that she was for _you_," Len says, seemingly pissed off.

"For me?" Jess asks, picking up the woman's license. Her name is Megan; age 21. "I'm flattered. I had no idea I needed your help in getting women."

"I had no idea I was for sale," Megan remarks.

"Ignore him and order," Jess states. "I'll put it on his tab."

"Hey," Len breaks in, displeased. "I don't have a tab."

"Then pay up. She looks pretty thirsty."

"Two beers," she orders, her smile now easy and loose. Her eyes linger on Jess as he hands them over, and it's something different. Something new. He smirks again, unable to muster up a decent grin.

"Thanks," she says coolly, and walks off.

"I mean it, pay up," Jess says, snapping Len's attention off the woman's backside. Len faces forward in his seat and glares at Jess before begrudgingly removing a ten from his wallet.

"Keep the change."

"You're so good to me," Jess deadpans.

Len offers a sloppy salute before standing and vacating the bar area.

The next couple of hours pass at a snail's pace, as less and less people enter the restaurant. Most do not even stop by the bar, instead opting to sit down for a late meal. Idly, Jess finds himself cleaning glasses he already washed hours ago, almost wishing that Len hadn't left so early on. Truthfully, Jess hates the slow nights; he prefers having a crowd to cater to, a hustle and bustle to keep him going. He hates having too much time on his hands.

Eventually only a handful of people remain, including Megan and her group of friends huddled in a corner. Surprisingly, Len reappears as Jess begins to wipe down the counter. He has a smug expression plastered on his face; it's a twisted sort of pride that gives Jess the worst feeling.

"What did you do?"

Len proudly presents his friend with a napkin. "I got you a phone number." Sure enough, there is black ink in the center, a name and a number. "That girl that was over here earlier? Yup, I asked her for you. What do you say?"

"I say I bet you fifty bucks that this is a fake number."

"You don't trust me?"

"No, I trust you. But her name is Megan, not B. Spears."

"Just call the number."

"You're a moron."

"Call her!" Len insists, giving a half wave as he walks away.

Minutes later, the group in the corner stands and they begin to collect their things. They pay the bill and head for the door. Passing the bar on the way, Megan breaks away from her friends, a coy smile on her face. She heads over to Jess.

"Hi," she says simply.

"Hey."

"Uh, your friend asked me for my number. He said you were lonely and desperate." Jess winces at this remark, but she continues. "Your friend kind of freaked me out, so I gave him a fake number. But just in case what he said was true… I wanted to give you the real one." She drops a new napkin on the bar top, her (real) name written in small, neat script above a number.

"I'll see you around."

"See you," Jess responds, watching her go. He touches the napkin lightly, angling it toward him. After considering it for a moment, he gingerly folds it, and slips it into his pocket. He goes back to cleaning, the seven numbers burning a hole into his side.

_Jess knocks on the door once, his courage dwindling with each passing second. He doubts he could raise his hand to knock again. After waiting too long, he almost turns to leave, figuring no one is there. The thought relieves him. But then, she is standing in front of him, looking very much surprised. _

_A hello stumbles its way out of his mouth, and she says hi back, mostly out of instinct. Her voice sounds shaky, and it alerts him to what he didn't notice at first sighting: her face is flushed, hair disheveled, and she is clad only in a robe. He can see the slope of her right shoulder, and the beginning of her thighs, and he tortures himself with the idea that she is wearing nothing beneath. He is so caught up with the fantasy that he temporarily forgets what all this adds up to._

_Behind her lurks her dorm room, the door closed. There is a man in there, most likely the one he saw kiss her the week before, in front of the diner. He has interrupted an intimate moment, and he feels foolish for thinking he could waltz over here without notice. He only wants to speak with her. He's fishing for another chance: friendship with her, the comfortable silences they had before they dated. _

_He shakes his head, and mumbles a never mind, and walks back to the parking lot. She doesn't come after him; he doesn't expect her to._

Lorelei. He pictures her on the rock in the Rhine Valley, the sun turning her hair lighter, the blue in her eyes swirling, the same color as the sea. He can hear her voice in his head, a haunting message leading him to destruction. Now, he waits in front of her, afraid of what she has to say.

"Hi." Her voice is small and cautious, treading carefully on uneven ground.

He needs to send her away. That is the point of the break-up: keep her at arm's length. Don't go to Yale; she won't come to the restaurant. It is the unsaid agreement, set in stone with anger, and a bitter lining of hate. When she hurried away from him that night, and didn't attempt to contact him later, he figured she understood. Even now, he thinks she does. She's just testing him.

He takes a step back, allowing her room. "Come in."

Rory offers a crescent moon smile that barely lifts the corners of her mouth. But it is enough. She enters and immediately heads for the couch. She sets her messenger bag down on the ground, and to his surprise, pulls out a textbook.

"It's too loud at the dorm," she says. "Paris was lurking in the library."

"Okay."

Study sessions with Paris are the worst, so she uses the next best place: his apartment. He has never turned her away before, so why stop now after he cut the ties that linked them? He's supposed to be the enigma of this relationship, but in this moment, he feels transparent. She lies back on the couch, interchangeably glancing from her book to her notes. He can't read her at all.

She's quiet after her terse explanation. For the next half-hour there is only the slight rustling of pages turning, and his footsteps shuffling uneasily around the kitchen. He opens a beer and takes a long sip, hoping it'll calm him. Her presence has put him under the microscope, and he cannot figure out what he was doing before she came, or what to do now that she's here. Finally, he finds a task for his idle hands and puts on a pot of coffee. The scent wafts over the short distance to where she sits on the couch, and she turns her head, catching him in the act.

"Is that coffee?" she asks, simply to say something.

"Yeah. Help yourself."

"Thanks."

Once again, she sounds almost childlike. He is taken aback at her shyness; how hesitant she seems to be in his presence. It almost bothers him, this change. He liked how she was always comfortable around him, how perfectly she always seemed to fit.

"I'm gonna go take a shower, it was a long day at work," he says suddenly, needing to be away from her to figure this out. Two weeks without a word, and here she is, cautious and on alert, as if he'll strike at any moment. He needs to know why she is here, why she has jumped back into this. He broke this off! He should be the one to decide when it is alright for her to see him again.

"Is it okay if I stay and study?"

"Yeah," he nods, and makes a quick exit.

His shower stretches on longer than necessary as if waiting her out. Stealthily, he slips into his bedroom wearing only his towel. He does not want her to catch him half-naked and soaked; he's not sure he has enough willpower to resist her if she did in fact come on to him. In truth, that's exactly what he's waiting for. He is almost certain that if he spends enough time in the same room as her, she will try to kiss him. She knows he'll let her. Even when he was trying to break up with her, he let it happen.

He emerges from his bedroom, fully dressed, hair damp. With new strength and a curiosity to uncover her motives, he heads directly for the couch. He finds her taking up most of the space, her legs bent as a makeshift desk for her textbook. She is not reading, but instead flipping through the channels with the remote control in her hand. He takes a seat at the opposite end, her toes just brushing him.

"Studying hard?" he asks with a surprisingly playful tone.

"Study break."

"Hand over the remote, I know you love to screw with my channels."

"Do not," she insists, finally tearing her eyes away from the screen to look back at him. Their eyes meet, and he feels the sharp electricity that he has come to associate with her. He has to beat down the urge to crawl on top of her, and make her forgot all about studying and the TV, and how he ended things between them.

As a distraction, he takes the controller from her and clicks the favorites button. "I knew it," he remarks. "You changed my favorites."

"Did not!" she insists, sounding very much like a petulant child.

"CNN, MSNBC, CNBC," he clicks through the news stations, and then, "Cartoon Network? Yeah, this just completely blows your credibility."

"Hey! I'll have you know that that cartoon on TV right now is an older people cartoon. That's _Family_ _Guy_."

"_Family Guy_?" he echoes. "Is that a talking dog?"

"Yup."

"Huh."

A few moments of silence pass, and much to Jess's surprise, they're comfortable. He keeps the cartoon on for her amusement, as she settles in and pretends to read from her textbook. She creeps forward slightly under the pretense of readjusting her position, and ends up resting the tops of her feet on his thigh. Instead of over-thinking this or asking her to give him space, he simply watches the television screen.

"Jess?" she asks quietly, grabbing for his attention.

"Yeah?" His eyes stay staring straight ahead.

"I still have a key."

"I know."

She pauses, the fuzzy sound of a commercial filtering in, heightening the awkwardness. "Do you want it back?"

_Yes_, logic tells him. She is supposed to be kept at a distance. She is only making things worse for him. Being here with her right now shouldn't even be happening! Never mind the good feeling that comes with her touch; she is selfish, and it's wrong. All wrong.

"Keep it."

"Okay," she half-whispers, returning to her studying.

He stays seated on the couch next to her, eyes flickering between the television and her. She falls asleep an hour later, and he lets her stay, remembering when this was a usual, normal occurrence. Two weeks ago, he wouldn't have thought twice. Two weeks ago, he still had the warped idea that she was maybe his.

-

Another week passes, and he works just a little less, giving Len back his hours. Rory comes over often to study and watch TV, sipping the coffee that Jess still buys for her when he goes to the grocery store. It is almost normal again, the two of them talking and just _being_ together; nothing more. There is desire and instinct, but neither acts on it. He doesn't ask if she sees Blake the nights she doesn't spend with him. He knows she does.

It is on a Thursday when Jess calls her, convinced that if Rory is going to being around again, he needs something else. So he dials the seven numbers, and waits for a voice to come through on the other end. She answers and he thinks he'll make Len work Saturday too.

"Hi, Megan? It's Jess… from the bar."

-

She wants to be an actress, but cannot act. She wants to sing, but cannot carry a tune. Being a writer crossed her mind, but unfortunately, most of the words she strings together only hold attention for a few minutes. She's hopeless, she says. Jess tells her that she should be proud of her brutal honesty; she holds no illusions about herself.

She doesn't go to college either. Ten points immediately are awarded.

The date goes well in that sweetly awkward way that only first dates can. Megan is nice, and conversation with her is enjoyable, and easy to do. She noticed immediately that he wasn't a big talker, so she filled up the empty space with her own words. Her voice has a quiet quality to it; he finds it nice. He stays interested.

He invites her back up to his apartment expecting anything. Coffee or sex, he can settle with either. She accepts. It's progress.

"Alright, before we go in," she says, freezing them outside his door. The key is in his hand and halfway to the lock. "I need to ask you a very important question. The answer may very well decide the rest of the night."

"Time to pay attention," he notes.

"Exactly." With her right hand, she covers her eyes. "What color are my eyes?"

"Are you kidding?"

"You wouldn't be surprised at how many times guys have gotten this wrong."

"I hate to break it to you, but you're not exactly wearing the most revealing shirt. I have no reason to gawk."

"Liar. Name the color."

"Green."

She drops her arm only to find him now standing, blinded by his own hand.

"Color?" he asks.

"This isn't fair."

"Girls usually know this one."

"I have trouble making eye contact," she complains.

"I may not —"

She takes a bold step forward and pulls his hand away, then kisses him, cutting him off mid-sentence. He returns the kiss eagerly, swamped by this new sensation. He pulls away for several short seconds to fit the key in the door, and swing it open. Then, both are stumbling inside; he shuts his front door with his foot.

She is shorter, he notes. She isn't as skinny; she has curvier hips. Experimentally, he grabs them, pulling him against her. This is met with a small gasp of appreciation, and he works her further into his apartment. He thinks he'll angle her to the couch, not wanting to scare her off by pushing this too far. However, they only make it a couple of feet before she trips, and their teeth clink together.

He keeps his hands on her, and thankfully, she doesn't try to move from his grasp. Fleetingly, he thinks they both want the same things here. Both look down to see the obtrusive object that caused them to stop. She giggles at the messenger bag; he recoils.

"Shit."

Megan looks up at him in surprise, and he surveys the apartment, looking for a clue.

"I'll be right back," he assures her.

He heads into his bedroom, the only place she can be. His door is partly open, and he enters to find Rory perched on the edge of his bed, steered toward the bookshelf on the left wall. She has her elbows on her thighs, holding up her chin, as she reads from a novel that lies in her lap.

"This is mine," she states without looking up.

He closes the door quietly and steps further into the room. "Fine, take it."

Startled by his curtness, she glances up. Immediately she sees a change, an urgency, and stands to face him.

"You need to leave."

"Why?" She sounds sad at his request, and a small part of him that is not throbbing with desire or anger feels bad. But it is far away, and not enough.

"Rory, could you just go?"

She looks confused for a moment, taking in his sight. Then, she frowns. "I thought you were at work," she says. "I figured it would be okay if I came over to study. I'm sorry I was in your room," she tries, doing her best to come up with the problem here, "I was just looking for a book."

"You can't just let yourself in! I don't know what you're trying to do, but we ended things, alright? There is nothing between us anymore, and if you're trying to make something happen…"

"Excuse me?" She looks angry now; upset. She's been coming over for a week and up until this moment, she thought things were getting back to normal.

"You're always screwing things up, and I can't do that anymore. That's why we broke up."

"You said I could keep the key. You said it was okay!"

"Rory…"

"You're an asshole," she spits out. "I'm not _trying _anything. What is wrong with you?" She sighs in frustration. "We were friends first, Jess. We have _always _been friends first. I… missed you."

Suddenly, she looks ashamed of herself and brushes past him out the door. She catches sight of Megan sitting on the couch and bites back a sob. Tears threaten to slip through at any second, and she hates herself for it; god, she hates him.

Grabbing her backpack from the ground, she heads for the door.

"Rory, could you just…"

She turns, and looks back at him, surprisingly with a cool demeanor. "I should go," she shrugs as if he hadn't just told her the same thing a minute ago. "I don't want to screw up your date. I hope you at least know her first name."

Then, she walks out, slamming the door behind her.


	7. Seven

**A/N**:  As always, thank you for the reviews.  Quotes used in this chapter are from Jane Austen, Francois De La Rochefoucauld, and Hermann Hesse respectively.  Thanks **so** **much** to Ari for the lovely beta.  You're beyond wonderful, m'dear.

**Chapter Seven**:  _So call it quits or get a grip_

He backs her across the room until she finally hits the bureau, even though she's told him that she hates that.  Her hand flies out on its own accord, knocking over a picture frame arranged by her ages before in front of the mirror.  It falls, smacking the wooden surface, and she hopes it breaks.  Later, she wants to pick it up, and find the old, stolen moment of the two of them in pieces.

For some inexplicable reason, he continues to press harder against her, even though she's already against a solid object.  She can feel the edge digging into her, slowly leaving a raw imprint beneath her shirt.  Soon, she will have a long, thin dip running across the small of her back; it almost hurts.

Rory leans into him, easing herself off the wood and further into him.  He stumbles back, and it's a sigh of relief to no longer feel the tight pressure against her skin.  Taking the initiative, he continues to back up until he hits the bed.  He spins the two of them around, graceless and sloppy, but somehow he manages not to break contact.  His kiss becomes more urgent as he lowers her onto the mattress, and she merely follows his lead.

She lies at an angle, her hair just brushing the pillows located at the top of the bed.  Her right foot still touches the carpet, while she bends her left, curving it around him.  In her head, she wants to pretend he's someone else, and as he moves to her neck, she bites her lip to keep from saying the wrong name. 

There is nothing wrong with Blake in this department.  He's a good kisser, and he handles her carefully except when he loses his head.  He's attentive and everywhere, but the passion she used to feel for him is missing.  Its disappearance is so completely obvious to her that it turns moments like these into a mechanical process.  She doesn't understand why he has never noticed; if he even realizes how faded the two of them have become.

Today, somehow, she is simply not in the mood.  For him, or for any of this; playing pretend does not interest her.  She is restless and sad, thinking about how much she has screwed everything up in the past week.  Everything with Jess is in a shambles.  She wanted to tell him that she likes being around him even if it means a strict friendship only.  She wanted to tell him that she misses him all the time now, and that she needs him; she wants him to know how much he means to her.

Instead of expressing any of that eloquently, she danced around him, wading into this new form of friendship carefully.  She snuck back in under the radar and got close to him without ever giving reasons for her presence.  Instead of letting things take shape again, allowing the bad to ebb away and their connection resolidify, he had led her on.  He had made her think that everything was alright when it wasn't.

"Blake," she mumbles, feeling his hand tickle her inner thigh.  She feels a sharp pressure behind her eyes, a sensation that has been building for days.  "Blake," she says again, his name coming out as a squeak as she tries to hold it in.  His fingers slip across her hip, beneath the thin fabric of her panties, and she gives him a hard push in the chest.

Immediately, he springs up, shooting her a funny look.  She sits up as well, brushing past him until she stands a couple of steps away.

"Rory?" he asks, unsure of where this went wrong.  "What is with you lately?"

"Nothing is with me."

"We haven't had sex in a month."

"Three weeks," she corrects.  "We've been busy."

"And now, we're not.  You've been acting so weird lately."

"I'm _fine_."

"It's like you don't want to touch me anymore."

There is a sharp pain in her chest, as if her heart has slammed against a row of thorns.  The tears slip out as she replays what he said over in her mind.  It sounds like something an old married couple would say; two people after years and years, and it's not getting any better.  She feels sick suddenly.

"Rory?"  He switches to concerned now.  He takes a step closer and when she doesn't flee, he gently grabs her wrists.  "Rory, come on…" 

He brushes away a few tears, letting the saline seep into his fingers.  She leans into his hand, and it is a tender moment that she wishes to freeze.  This she would not mind squeezing into a picture frame; she would display it proudly.  But then she remembers why she is crying.  And then Blake speaks.

"Did you get into a fight with Jess?"

"What?" she asks, startled by the randomness of the question.

"Your relationship with him tends to dictate ours sometimes."

"It does not, cut it out."  She takes a step back and he lets her.

"He hasn't been following you around lately, so I thought…"

"You can be such a jerk sometimes."

"Rory, come on.  You know him and I don't get along."

"You brought him up!  You do realize that you're blaming our lack of a sex life on him, right?"  Inwardly, she flinches because there is a small truth there.  But she is frustrated and upset, and at this point, she's past caring.

"I'm sorry, okay?  I'm sorry.  Really.  I just hate how strained things have been."

"I don't want to talk about this."

"Come on!  What it is going on?"

"I'm sorry I don't want to sleep with you today," she snaps.  "The simple fact is that Gary is supposed to be here soon, and I don't need him walking in on us."

"That's bullshit, you're avoiding the issue."

"Which issue?  There are too many issues!  Maybe we've just been together too long."

She spins around and heads toward the bathroom, grabbing her discarded purse on the way.  She slams the door and locks it behind her, before taking a seat on top of the closed toilet lid.  The tears come faster now, but she is silent, and somehow relieved to have finally said what she's been dying to tell him for a while now.  She's trying to shove their complications into his hands.  Let him make the final decision; let him end them.

"Don't do this."  Traveling through the door, his voice is soft, softer than she's heard in a long time.  It reminds her of earlier nights with him, when he was more than an obligation.  She thinks of their first time together, and for a moment, she aches for him.

Quickly, she squeezes her eyes shut, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of guilt that overtakes her.  She buries her face in her hands, waiting this out.

"Rory?"  He knocks, pauses, "Rory?"

"I don't want this to end," he tries.  "Can you please come out so we can talk about this?"

Swiveling to her left, she turns on the shower, and he is drowned out.  Minutes tick by and there is only the steady noise of water hitting porcelain; she watches the whirlpool slip down the drain.  She feels stuck, and very ridiculous, hiding in her boyfriend's bathroom.  Again, she thinks of heading out there and ending it; stopping this charade for good.

But then, automatically, she thinks of the repercussions.  Her grandfather plays golf with Blake's grandfather.  Her grandmother has tea with his mother.  Parties would be awkward; maybe even have to be avoided.  There would be gossip and disappointment; over three years to end like this?  High society has strict rules, she reminds herself.

She shakes her head and rubs her temples, wondering when all of this became so important to her.  Sometimes, she thinks she's selfish; other times, she remembers that most of what she does is to please someone else.  Jess and Yale are the only two things she has all for herself.  And Jess is (was) the only one that comes without loopholes.

Before she can stop herself, she pulls out her cell phone and dials the familiar number.  She lets it ring and ring, and realizes he is not home.  Finally, the answering machine that she made him invest in picks up, and she takes a deep breath, trying to summon up a steady voice.

"Hi, Jess, it's me.  Look, I'm… sorry about last night.  Your date looked really nice, and I hope I didn't ruin things.  But you… you said…"  She trails off, frustrated.  She has no idea how to explain her anger.  "I'm sorry," she settles on, because she is.  She always is.  "Just call me sometime."

She drops her phone back into her purse and shuts off the shower.  Outside her small hideaway, she hears the front door open, and Blake greet his friend, Gary.  A minute later, Blake is at the door, asking if she still wants to meet the rest of their friends for dinner.  Deflated, she unlocks the door and emerges, her face tearless.  Blake wraps his arm around her as they leave the apartment, and leans close.  His voice is small but certain as he speaks, his breath warm against her ear:

"I love you."

-

He is barely keeping his head above water.  Last night, after Megan made a fast exit only minutes after Rory, he had sunk into a low mood.  He may have kicked back a beer or two or four; he doesn't remember.  The only clear event in his mind is waking up this morning and feeling a grenade go off in his head.  He slept straight through his morning shift, and later had to deal with several messages left on his machine from his boss, the woman who was forced to cover for him, and Len, being his usual nosey self, which meant asking if Jess had gotten any.

Well, he hadn't.

He had successfully managed to simultaneously make Rory angry and sad, and more than likely cry as soon as she got out of his sight.  Then, thanks to the scene she made, Megan was scared off, unable to remember if she had even given Jess her last name.

He finally arrives at the restaurant, headache and disorientation, for the most part, still intact.  He's playing waiter today, and is kept on his toes for the dinner rush.  Len is behind the bar, and each time Jess passes, a question is shot his way regarding the night before.  Jess has yet to answer a single one.

It is half past six when he sees her enter, the boyfriend at her side.  Another man stands with him, and he produces a fuzzy kind of familiarity within Jess, but not enough to register a name.  Jess has met some of Blake's (and by extension Rory's) friends on occasion, but none of them have ever stuck.

With his incredible luck, the three are added to the table already filled with four others, directly in the middle of his section of the restaurant.  He's not ready for this; he doesn't want this.  Immediately, he turns and heads over to a very idle Len.

"Switch with me."

Len glances up at his friend, a bored air surrounding him.  He raises his eyebrows with disinterest.  "Go away, I'm getting paid to stand here."

"Switch with me, and think of all the tips you'll get."

"Yes, but that means I'll have to actually go and move around.  I'd much prefer just standing here, getting paid for the one or two customers that approach."

"Len, you know how I'm always doing you favors?"

"Flip, reverse that.  I do favors for _you_."

"Last night, Megan came back to the apartment.  Rory was there.  I kicked her out, and Megan left right after that.  I did not have sex with either," he explains, finally giving Len the information he craves, "and I'm currently experiencing the never ending hangover.  Rory, who right now hates me, just got here with her boyfriend.  You take over my place and I'll bartend until they leave, alright?"

"I have never, not once, heard you say so much at once.  I just… are you flustered?"

"Shut up," Jess snaps.

"You're flustered!"

"You can keep my tips and anything I make here, I give to you."

"Done deal.  Rory's the brunette, right?  With the blue eyes?"

"Go."

"Fine, fine, don't want you any more flustered than you already are."

Len walks off and greets the table, offering menus and taking drink orders.  Jess studies Rory carefully from his position behind the bar, doing his best to stay out of her line of vision.  She looks uncomfortable and detached from the conversation that is going full speed around her.  Every once in a while, she glances around, and he knows she's looking for him.

A customer appears, someone young and forgettable, his order barely leaving a mark on Jess's memory.  Robotically, Jess mixes the drink and delivers, moving closer to the center of the bar to do so.  When he glances up he finds Rory staring back, finally having found him here.  She tries to muster up a smile but it is a distressed and guilty one.  She ends up looking away, pretending not to have spotted him at all.

The guilt hits him hard as he remembers the night before.  He yelled and accused and barely gave her a proper explanation.  A part of him wants a do over, so he can have her back.  He grabs a napkin from the stack that sits nearby, and pulls a pen from his pocket.  He scrawls down a quick message and when Len is close enough, he gives it to him, and asks him to deliver it with Rory's plate.  Len, thinking himself more as a covert spy than the messenger pigeon he actually is, agrees.

Rory gets her meal several minutes later, the plate's appearance startling her from the stupor she has fallen into.  Her time here has passed slowly, stretched out by conversation from Blake's friends.  She knows each fairly well, all good acquaintances from college, people she met through Blake.  They are nice enough, and kind to her, eliciting a pleasant reaction out of her when she sees them.  But tonight is unbearable.  If she had known they'd be having dinner here, she would have vehemently refused to come.

"Hey, Rory," is mumbled as the hand that brought her plate is drawn away.  She looks up and she realizes it is Jess's friend, Len.  He smiles at her, and she recognizes the smugness in it.  He's playing a game; she can practically hear him taunting, _I know something you don't know._

Rory turns to the food in front of her, adjusting the plate so it is closer.  Upon doing so, she finds a folded napkin wedged beneath it, and her heart skips a beat.  She takes it out and places it in her lap, but finds that no one is paying attention anyway.  Unfolding it, she reads:

_Friendship is certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love._

Over and over, she reads it, savoring the words.  It is alright.  It _can _be alright.  This is his acceptance, right?  This is his assurance that their friendship can continue.  He is her escape from what she cannot bear, and he knows that.  He is more though.  Does he get that too?

She pulls a pen from her purse and uses her own napkin to write something down.  Over the sea of heads crowded in the room, she finds Len, and he grins at her.  Walking over, he comes to a stop next to her, and asks if everything is alright with their meal.  A few frustrated grunts are let out, most disbelieving that he has returned so quickly. 

He plays messenger again.

He delivers the new napkin to Jess, almost giddy with the novelty of all this.  Jess's scowl sends him away, so he can read the message in private.

_There is no disguise which can hide love for long where it exists, or simulate it where it does not._

There is a faint stirring, as if there are layers shifting over in his mind.  Something new is uncovered, lined with cotton and gauze, drowning the clarity out.  He can almost hear it, the audio dim, the visual nonexistent. 

_I love you._  (Her voice soft and sleepy.)  _Because I love you._ (Over the line, through the phone, she tells him carefully.)  _Becau_—

He cuts it off, snaps whatever thread that is delivering this lie to his mind, and crumples up the napkin, sick of her games.  He pulls out a new one, wanting to write back and tell her he's tired, so tired of this. 

_Some of us think holding on makes us strong; but sometimes it is letting go._

The words drift through his head, but his pen stays poised over the napkin, unmoving.  Before he can decide on his next move, he feels a presence beside him.  Looking up, he finds Megan, looking tentative.

"Hi," she tries.

"Hey."

She opens her mouth to speak, but instantly, she appears frustrated at whatever words she has come up with.  Instead, she leans over the bar and gives him a swift kiss.  Pulling away, she rests her elbows on the wood.  She offers him a small, hesitant smile.

"I'm sorry I left last night," she tells him.  "I should have waited or let you explain, or…"

"It's fine," he assures her.  "It was an… awkward situation."

"Ex-girlfriend?"

"Something like that."

"Complicated?"

"Like you wouldn't believe."

"Maybe you could explain it to me over coffee sometime?" she suggests coyly, subconsciously leaning closer.

Her suggestion surprises him.  With her departure last night, he figured they were over before it even began.  She still wants this.  Or at least, she wants to try.

"Sure."

She smiles.  "So… busy night?"

There are no customers in sight.  He turns so he can face her fully, and there is easy conversation.

Across the room, Rory watches the two of them interact.  She has seen her smile, and their kiss, and how easy they get along.  It freezes her, and she feels isolated, slowly floating away.  She doesn't realize that she is staring too long until Blake nudges her after repeating her name one too many times.  It breaks the trance, but he follows her gaze.  Once he sees Jess, there is a stirring in his blood; this is more than he can take.

"I'm going to get a drink," he excuses himself from the table.  Rory immediately realizes where this is headed and shoots up to follow him.

They both arrive at the bar, Blake only one step ahead.

"Hi, Jess," he says, the words devoid of pleasantry.

"Blake, you can just ask the waiter for something.  Let's go back to the table," she begs, not needing their verbal sparring tonight.

"I just want a beer," he shrugs.  Stiffly, Jess walks off to retrieve it.  Blake turns to Megan.  "Girlfriend?" he asks.

"Friend," she corrects.  Her eyes fall on Rory.  "It's Megan.  If you ask Jess, he can give you my middle and last name too."

In the back of her mind, Rory knows she deserves this.  Her snap at Jess was also an insult to this woman.  But her snide attitude puts her on the defensive, and the fact that Jess may have been intimate with her turns her stomach.

"I'm Blake," he introduces himself to Megan, propriety still his first instinct.  "This is my girlfriend, Rory."

Jess comes back with the beer, placing it on the bar.

"We've met," Megan says with less venom.  She's trying to make an effort.  "Although last night, I didn't exactly catch your name."

Or maybe not.

"Last night?"  Blake asks, and Rory flinches.  "Last night, you said you couldn't make the party because you had so much studying to do."

"I did.  I had reading to do.  I worked last night so we could go out today.  I just went to Jess's to study.  It was quieter there."

"I am so sick of never being able to reach you because you're at his apartment.  And then you purposely shut off your phone…"

"Stop.  Could you just stop?  Please?"

"You spend more time with him than you do with me!  Why?  What is so special about him?"

"Don't," she warns.

Blake turns to Jess.  "Did you even graduate high school?"

Jess's eyebrows shoot up, but he says nothing.

"Stop, you know he has his GED," Rory says, tugging on his arm.

"You dropped out, right?  You were taking too many shifts at… Wal-Mart, was it?"

Jess scowls, the familiar creep of anger spreading through him.  He glances at Rory, and his muscles tighten.  She told Blake this.  All of this.  He can imagine the two of them sitting around, discussing him.  Rory listing all of the terrible things he did throughout their relationship before he up and left her. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees an impatient customer standing at the bar, waiting to be served.   A second later, Len is there, a couple of feet away from Jess, helping out.  It gives him a small relief; someone on his side.

"You're a bartender now," Blake says, almost like an accusation.  "You must be proud."

"Hey," Len cuts in, mixing a drink.  "_I'm _a bartender."

"You also go to college.  This is something you do for money until you graduate.  For Jess, this is all there is."

"Screw you," Jess snaps.  "I'm sick of you acting like you're better than me.  You're just pissed off that your girlfriend hangs around me more.  Don't take it out on me, alright?  It's not my fault she follows me around."

Rory shoots him a hurt look, crushed at what he says.  He ignores her.

"You say one more thing and I'll kick you out.  I don't need you making a scene," Jess warns.

Blake scowls at him, and turns on his heel, heading back to his table.

"Len, I'm going on break." 

Jess walks off, brushing Megan's shoulder with his hand, a wordless apology.  Rory darts out after him.  She follows him to the alley next to the restaurant, where he begins to pull out a cigarette.  She lays her palm flat on his back, wanting to talk to him, to make him feel better.

"He's going to propose to you at graduation," he states, turning around to see her.

"Excuse me?"

"I bet you anything it'll be graduation.  Before you can move or make solid plans.  He's going to propose and then that's it, it's sealed.  You're Lorelai, but the way they wanted her."

"Stop it." 

"I sure hope you've been taking notes at those Friday night dinners, because that's going to be your life.  Parties every god damned weekend, charity events that you don't even know what for.  But hey, don't worry, you can hire me as a butler or the poolboy, and then you'll still be able to fuck me whenever you want."

She slaps him hard, and it leaves a thousand tiny prickles running across her palm.  He stares at her in shock, his eyes wide.  For a split second, she thinks he might strike back, he looks that infuriated.

"I don't know why I waste my time with you.  You're this close to a deadbeat drunk, who has absolutely no future, and one of these days, I'm going to turn around and you're not going to be here anymore.  Because that's what you do, Jess.  You run.  You fail.  Well go ahead, run away!  I don't need you."

She turns and hurries out of the alley.  All he can do is touch his cheek, and trace the handprint she left behind.

_It is late, and Jess lies still, staring up at the ceiling.  He has stripped down to his boxers, ready for bed, exhausted from the day's work.  His eyes grow heavy as the room blurs, his eyelashes fluttering.  Suddenly, he hears the front door open, and then close, and he listens as heels click down his short hallway.  In the doorway, this unnamed person pauses, and Jess hears two thumps hit the floor.  She's removed her shoes._

_From his peripheral vision, he can see her walk toward the bed.  She perches herself at his side, looking down at him, a silly smile on her face.  She says hello, and without waiting for a return greeting she launches into the story of how she was at a party an hour and a half away.  She left early, feigning a headache, and called a taxi to take her home.  Somehow though, when she got into the cab, she gave the driver his address instead.  She finds this funny.  Jess finds her tipsy._

_She lies down beside him, and studies him with clear blue eyes.  His blood speeds up; this is awkward.  They are in the beginning stages of this new relationship where she still holds all of the power.  She chose to cross the line, so she controls this.  He cannot touch her; it's not his choice.  She has to make the first move.  But then, he is tired of waiting, tired of being passive under her hand._

_He rolls onto his side, and kisses her delicately, waiting for her to crumble beneath him.  Her mouth is warm and stained with wine; he loves the taste.  He pulls away to look at her, and when she doesn't try to get out of his grasp, he leans in again.  Before he can make contact though, she sits up, kneeling in front of him.  He follows her lead, slipping his hands over her shoulder, across her neck.  She leans into him._

_He slides closer to her, kissing a curve from the corner of her eye to beneath her earlobe.  She lets out a ragged breath, and he hears her choke on the words._

_I'm still with him, she says, not telling him that she tried to end it._

_He meets her eyes, and touches her lips.  I know, he says, and he doesn't care.  She wants him, and that's all that is important right now.  He kisses her again. _

She opens the door without asking who it is.  She is not expecting company, not at this hour.  But this is Stars Hollow; she isn't worried. 

Her eyes widen at the sight before her, and she thinks she's gasped out loud.

"Hi, Mom," Rory says, wringing her hands together.  She sniffs back her tears, but it's no use.   They fall harder.  "I'm sorry."


	8. Eight

**Chapter Eight**: _When I sneak to your bed to pour salt in your wounds_

_She competes with the phone for attention. For the past half-hour, he has paced around his apartment, phone in hand. She can tell when someone else comes on the line, because his entire demeanor changes. With Jimmy, he is short and almost gruff, but Rory picks up on the good natured flavor; this is simply how he is with his father. With Sasha, Jess talks more, much more. He is forced to give detail after detail, and Rory is grateful, because she loves the sound of his voice. He is almost polite too, his tone more careful and patient as he speaks to his almost stepmother._

_Then comes the girl who is as of yet unclassified, although Rory long ago dubbed her Jess's sister. Lily hogs the phone the longest, telling him about school and the abysmal reading material they have assigned her. She tells him what she's read, and he tells her what else she should be reading. Their conversation tends to stretch for a while, and it is here where Rory gets antsy. For the past few minutes, she has been following Jess's trek through the apartment, jumping in front of him at every chance. He merely glares and sidesteps her._

_When he finally lands on the couch, phone still glued to his ear, she goes as far as to sit on his lap, trying to get him to hang up. They are supposed to see a movie today, and at this rate, they'll never make it._

_Jess scowls, putting his hand over the mouthpiece to remind her in a harsh whisper that she has a boyfriend that is dying for an excuse to kick his ass, so could she, _please_, get the hell off. Frustrated, she flops over to the adjacent cushion, and shoulder to shoulder with him, she waits._

_The movie time has blown past by the time he hangs up, and she's just pissed enough to point out what she really shouldn't. In a confused tone that barely masks the spiteful intent, she asks him why he is so buddy buddy with the father that left him high and dry as a baby, while he almost never speaks to the mother that raised him. He couldn't even fly up for the wedding that Rory, herself, attended._

_This question elicits a dry laugh from Jess, who raises an eyebrow at her choice of words. Me, he asks, you're asking me why I have a poor relationship with my mother? He reminds her in a not so pleasant tone that she cut her own mother out of her life. The comment stings her, turning her to stone. A full moment passes before she insists in a quiet, detached voice that she did not, did _not_,__ cut her mother out of her life._

_It just happened._

She has not been to her childhood home in months, although her room still exists as she left it, bed and bureau, bookcase full of books. It seems frozen in time, a screen capture of how she used to live here with her mother, and how they used to get along. It's an eternal reminder to Lorelai who always keeps the door closed.

Lorelai's first instinct when she sees her daughter, her _crying_ daughter, is to take her in her arms, and let her get it out. They would talk after, pig out on comfort food, and Rory would tell the whole story. Lorelai then would have the perfect solution, most likely speaking from experience, and all would be well. A movie would be watched, laughter would break the sadness that still clung to the room, and they'd fall asleep on the couch, together.

"Can I come in?" Rory asks after her impromptu appearance and apology. She's nervous that her own mother might turn her away even though there is no single deciding moment from the past couple of years that says they cannot get along. It was everything, building one on top of another, suffocating them both. Eventually, they just allowed it to… drift.

Lorelai, forgetting that it is her turn to speak, simply nods and allows her estranged daughter to enter the threshold. Rory pauses, however, in the front hall, as if afraid to step further inside.

Finally, both head to the couch and take a seat, the awkwardness following behind, close on both of their heels. This type, however, is more painful than uncomfortable. It is lined with claws, and sharp teeth, an actual monster taking a seat on the nearby chair, making sure to keep mother and daughter at arm's length.

Rory wants to speak, can feel herself brimming with the unsaid words; they taste stale after months of being locked away. Instead of letting them come, however, she lets out another sob, and buries her face in her hands, and cries harder, hunching over into her lap.

Lorelai, still quiet, lets her hand hang above her daughter's back, hovering only an inch away. Then, it drops, and it's easy, and simple, and she remembers what to do. It feels like rust being cleared off, and now everything suddenly works again, clean and new and familiar. Rory, at the comforting touch, turns and cries against her mother, and there is perfect silence in the house.

"I'm sorry," Rory says again, choking.

"Oh, honey, it's okay," Lorelai assures her, wondering if it can be this easy. Months of silence, a couple of years of stiff uneasiness all suddenly undone by Rory's desperate need for her mother.

Forgiven and forgotten; it can be this simple.

Eventually, Rory regains some measure of composure and sits back at the opposite end of the couch. She faces Lorelai, and they both hold their breath, waiting to fully fix this.

"You don't come to Friday night dinners anymore," Rory says.

"You know your grandmother and I aren't on the best of terms."

"I missed you."

"Oh sweetie, I missed you too." And Lorelai feels it, the ache in her belly, the constant twist that now slowly unravels. "You just… your grandmother…"

"Don't blame Grandma."

"I didn't say I was blaming Grandma."

"She's not such a horrible woman," Rory insists.

"I'm not calling her one! But you know she's the reason we've been… distant."

"She is not."

"Then what, Rory? You want to explain to me what seems to be our problem? Before my mother got so involved in your personal life, we were fine."

"You can't blame her. It's not as if she barred you from dinner or parties. It's not as if she forbade me from coming home."

"Then why haven't you been home? Last summer, you spent two weeks here before leaving," Lorelai points out, a desperate tone in her voice. "You played musical houses. You stayed with your grandparents, and Paris, and Blake… god, you even spent a couple of weeks with Jess!"

"Jess is one of my best friends."

"Since when?"

"Since we got past the California issue, and he moved to New Haven," Rory answers. "He's different now. He has his own apartment, and works as a bartender, and makes real good tips. He…"

"Best friends with Jess? That's fantastic."

"Are we going to fight about Jess?" Rory asks.

"No. I was just reliving the good times." Lorelai smiles, and when Rory returns it, the air pressure in the room seems to lessen just a bit.

"Your grandparents pay for your education, Rory, but that does not mean they have to dictate your life," Lorelai says, after the comfortable moment passes. She's back on task now.

"I'm just trying to make her happy."

"_I _tried to make her happy, and I swear to you, it's just not physically possible! The woman is never satisfied! I failed her as a daughter because I had you. And now she's taking you and making you…"

"Into what she wanted you to be," Rory finishes, recalling Jess's raised voice.

"You don't have to do that, Rory. I don't think you want to."

"But they gave me Chilton. They gave me Yale! I owe them."

"You owe them gratitude and Friday night dinners." Lorelai sighs, lightly touching her forehead as if warding off a headache. "I know you love your grandparents. I love them too, even though sometimes I can't stand to be within a five mile radius of that house. But it's your life, not my mother's."

"I know that," Rory assures her. "I just don't want to disappoint her."

Lorelai groans and throws her hands in the air. "It started with Blake," she shakes her head. "My mother wanted you to have a new boyfriend, so she picked him out for you. It just built from there… You got lucky that you actually liked Blake, or else you would have had to keep dealing with the suitors from hell."

"Will you start coming to dinner again?"

"Rory… you just… do you understand? My mother is trying to raise you to be like her. To be some damn socialite! That's not you. I don't want you like that. And every time she and I are in the same room together… there's just… friction." Lorelai pauses, sighs, regroups. "I can't stop you from living how you want, but please, Rory, don't avoid me anymore."

"I wasn't trying to avoid you," Rory says quietly.

"I wasn't trying to avoid you either," Lorelai admits.

"It just happened."

"Yeah, things just… happen sometimes," Lorelai agrees, and Rory knows how true that is.

"Can I stay here tonight?"

"Of course." She pauses. "Do you want to tell me what got you here sobbing on my doorstep in the first place?"

"Later?" Rory pleads. "I'm exhausted."

"Emotional distress, gotcha."

Lorelai studies her daughter for a long moment, lingering on the bloodshot eyes and the tears that slowly dry on her face. "Don't slip away again, okay?"

"I won't," Rory promises. She stands and begins to head to her room. Halfway there, she turns and goes back to her mother and gives her a light kiss on the cheek. "Night, Mom."

"Night, kid."

Once Rory disappears in her bedroom, a small smile appears on Lorelai's face. She doesn't try to fight it.

-

_"Yes! you are the ruin--the ruin--the ruin--of me. I have no resources in myself, I have no confidence in myself, I have no government of myself when you are near me or in my thoughts. And you are always in my thoughts now. I have never been quit of you since I first saw you. Oh, that was a wretched day for me! That was a wretched, miserable day!"_

Jess reads the passage once more, beginning to suspect that he is a masochist at heart. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he wanted to go over this. As he browsed through his collection, he purposely picked Our Mutual Friend, skipping ahead just so he can read about how screwed up he is.

Now the act of reading is ruined by his own actions, and he drops the books onto the cushion beside him, running a hand through his hair. Gingerly, he touches his cheek, but there is no mark left behind. The night before when he went to sleep, it was still red, but now, there is nothing, no lingering print of her anger, just the internal sting of her words that had seeped in.

_Deadbeat drunk_, she had accused. That had unnerved him because often, she would raise an eyebrow whenever he went out drinking. Is that what she really thought of him? That certainly would be the kicker, he thinks, if she actually believed he was on the path to alcoholism. He worked around drinks all the time, but never indulged himself. It was only after hours, or on his nights off, or when she upset him, or…

Quickly, he stands up, beating that out of his mind only to remember her assurance that he would fail (her) again, and would take off. He remembers her blatant declaration of how she doesn't need him, although he knows that is bull. If she doesn't need him, then she wouldn't be so desperate to keep him in her life. Their friendship, he recalls; she values that.

Doesn't matter. None of it matters. She keeps screwing him over, invading his life, and even when she isn't physically there, she is all he can think about. Going over what went wrong, and how _he _messed up. Forget this.

Then, he thinks of Megan and her suggestion of coffee. It's just what he needs.

He heads into the kitchen, where the phone rests on the counter. Before he can pick it up, the flashing red one catches his eye. He has a message. He presses play and listens to the robotic voice state the time and date (early evening; yesterday), and then he hears her voice:

"Hi, Jess, it's me. Look, I'm… sorry about last night. Your date looked really nice, and I hope I didn't ruin things. But you… you said…" (a long pause, and he thinks she's hung up) "I'm sorry. Just call me sometime."

The old familiar guilt revisits him, settling on his shoulders. It is a secondhand emotion; after experiencing so much of it, it is almost a solid part of him now. But still, it affects him, making him rethink the night before. This message only reinforces his belief that she wants (needs) him in her life. However, he can't get her harsh words out of his head, even if they were just an angry reaction to his own.

Deleting her voice, he picks up the phone. Twenty minutes later, he's out the door with a coffee date.

-

"Rory."

He is finding it increasingly difficult to escape her.

"Rory," he repeats because Megan really didn't give him much to go on.

They sit in a quaint shop, perfect for quiet dates and meaningful conversations. Their waiter is tall with a snide attitude, acting as if fetching their orders is beneath him (and Jess has to hold back the urge to remark that technically it is). The man has to hunch over in half to deliver their coffees, and then he leaves without a word, not even asking if either would like anything else. Megan seems oblivious to the less than stellar service, and Jess quickly forgets it with the mention of one name.

"You said you would explain the situation to me if we went out for coffee."

Well, shit. Jess originally thought she was only trying to ask him out. Now, he is actually expected to discuss the very personal matter of Rory? He supposes he owes a simple, neat explanation to Megan because Rory _did _interrupt one of their dates, but what to say?

"She's an ex-girlfriend. We dated in high school."

"It ended badly?" Megan asks.

"Yeah. It ended with me in California and her going off to Yale."

"Oh." She is confused, but Jess makes no move to shine a light on the exact events. There's no need.

"I came back during her sophomore year. Had to go through the whole redemption thing before we became friends again."

"So you're just… friends."

"She has a boyfriend," he points out. "You met him. He was that wonderfully charming asshole, Blake."

"He did seem like kind of a jackass," she smiles. "But are you two just friends?"

"I swear, three seconds ago, we went over this."

"She has a boyfriend," Megan says, "and he yelled at her for spending too much time with you."

"I think you're overstepping a line."

"No direct answer?"

"Megan, I'm serious… this isn't any of your business."

"You said it was complicated. And I'm not going to date you if you're already seeing someone else."

"She has a boyfriend, alright? They've been dating since her _freshman_ year, and that's it. Nothing more."

"So you two… how long?"

"Jesus!" He stands up, ready to hightail it out of there when she speaks again.

"Listen, Jess, I was going to _sleep _with you on our first date. I don't know what you think of me, but that's not usually me. I like you. A lot. But if you're seeing this girl who's already seeing someone else…"

He sits back down, beyond frustrated. "We're not seeing each other anymore."

"But you were?"

"Yes, geez! We were sleeping together. Would you like to know the details? Where and when… how?"

"You're kind of being an asshole."

"And you're kind of prying into my private life," he shoots back.

"I'm sorry, but I just found out that this guy I like used to sleep with some girl who is currently in a fouryear relationship. _Four_ years and she…"

"Don't do that."

"What?"

"Don't start implying things about her," Jess warns.

"What am I supposed to think? She dates some guy throughout college and keeps you on the side?"

"Stop it, I mean it. You're starting to piss me off with —" He cuts himself off suddenly, swearing under his breath. "I'm getting mad at you," he states blankly.

"I'm sorry," she immediately says. "I really shouldn't have…"

Jess shakes his head in disbelief, speaking mostly to himself: "I'm getting mad at you over her."

"Jess," Megan begins, looking at her watch. "I have to get going. I… I really can't do this."

She stands and leaves a couple of dollars behind, her payment for her coffee. She pauses at his side, and she gives him a kiss, short and final, because this isn't – can't – go anywhere.

"I'm sorry," she says once they part.

Then the bell above the door rings, signaling her exit, and Jess sits back in his chair, at a loss.

-

That night, he works late, behind the bar. It is a Monday, and there is one consistent customer that has been sitting in front of him for the past three hours. The guy keeps ordering up more beer, and Jess knows that soon, he will have to cut him off. The scene makes him uncomfortable, and he tries to picture himself in the man's shoes, so in need of a distraction that can pluck him out of life and drop him somewhere else.

If he and Rory hadn't been so messed up at the moment, she probably would have been there, talking to him, serving as _his _distraction. Or maybe when he got back to the apartment, she'd be asleep on his couch – maybe his bed. He likes coming home to her, he likes seeing her. She may drive him to head out and drink sometimes, but when they're good, she's the reason he doesn't. She's the reason he lingers here, working to keep his apartment, hanging around so she has a place to hide.

It's strange how she's always trying escape through him, while simultaneously, he's trying to lose himself in her.

As he calls the man a taxi, Jess begins to wonder if he is worse off with Rory or when he is without her.

-

Her window is cracked to let the cool night air in, and it is just enough for him to slip his fingers in, and open it the rest of the way. He isn't completely sure why he doesn't just wait until tomorrow to see her, but tonight, after he finished up at the bar, he just… had to.

His stop at the dorm only succeeded in scaring the hell out of Paris, who haughtily informed him that Rory is currently staying in Stars Hollow, commuting to her classes from there. Somehow, this brought him a spark of happiness; she finally spoke to Lorelai.

The actual process of climbing through her bedroom window is much easier to visualize than to actually do. Gracelessly, he pulls himself in, nearly wiping out in the middle of her floor. He stands and finds her asleep in bed, turned on her side, curling into herself. Seeing her like this, peaceful and harmless, brings a familiar surge of something he cannot name. There's a hint of nostalgia mixed with something more; much more.

Jess sits on the side of her bed, and lightly touches her shoulder, tracing a line up her neck and to her cheek. She wakes slowly, shifting under his touch, her eyes fluttering open. Before she can startle, she recognizes him, or at the very least, his outline in the dark.

She sits up and they're close, very close. Before she can question his presence, he closes the small gap, and kisses her. She's so startled, she almost pulls away, but he follows her, moving back with her. He lays her down and climbs on top of her, settling carefully.

She doesn't know his reasons or if this even means anything, but in that moment, it doesn't matter, because he is here, wanting her. The past harsh words and ill intentions dissolve, as he presses harder against her, and she remembers how much she missed this. He nibbles on her bottom lip, before kissing the side of her mouth and sitting back up. Immediately, she shoots up to follow him, grabbing his upper arm. She is terrified he'll leave again, leave _her_.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I'm sorry for telling Blake all about you. It was before you came back, when I was still mad at you… the subject of past relationships came up, and it all just… came out. And I'm sorry about what I said to you. I shouldn't have…" She trails off, too tired to point out that he yelled at her first. She just wants this fixed and better; she wants Jess to be hers again.

"And I lied," she tells him. "When I said I didn't need you." She pauses and can't put the words together. She cannot outright say it; it's too scary to dwell on how much she depends on him. So she simply settles on, "I do."

He studies the way she looks at him, trying to copy it. He wants to mirror her expression, so she knows, understands, that he needs her too. He foolishly thinks that no matter what happens, no matter what she does, he wants her in his life. He's too far in with her to stop now. She's bad for him, but without her, it's even worse.

He has no idea if she understands, so he kisses her again, a quick brush against the lips.

"Can I stay tonight?"

"Yeah," she answers softly.

She moves over in bed and lifts the sheet, and he climbs underneath. She turns away from, and he slips in behind her, curving so he fits perfectly around her body. Tugging on his arm, she gets him to wrap it around her, and she takes his hand, entwining their fingers. Lightly, she brings his thumb to her lips, before simply resting their hands against her closed mouth, his knuckles brushing the tip of her nose.

Moments later, she falls asleep in his arms, while he lies awake and wonders if he is out of his mind.


	9. Nine

**A/N**: Thanks so much for the feedback. It's very much appreciated. Thanks to Arianna for once again being a wonderful, helpful beta. You are amazing.

**Chapter Nine**: _I'm glad you can forgive_

Rory wakes up first. In the middle of the night, the pair parted, but they are still close, both edging toward the center of her twin bed. She turns toward him, so they are face to face, feeling almost bashful. This isn't the first time she's watched him sleep, lightly traced the area around his heart, resting her palm flat against his chest, so she can feel its rise and fall. Inching closer, she curls a leg over his, causing him to stir and flop on his back.

With this new position, she finds it even easier to move closer to him. So she does, cuddling into his side, resting her chin on his shoulder. She sneaks her fingers beneath his shirt and runs them across his abdomen, simply enjoying the feel of his skin. He doesn't get this, she thinks. The way she loves this, being here, lying against him.

His voice too, she decides. His condescending politeness for customers he doesn't like. The way he looks at her when he's angry. The way he looks at her when he moves over her. The color of his eyes. The fact that he's still here. The idea that she is the reason.

It isn't so much a kiss as it is a need to touch him more. She tilts her head up, and brings her lips to the spot beneath his ear, drawing them down in a straight line. She only stops when she reaches the top of his shirt. Smiling, she buries her face in the fabric, smelling a mixture of alcohol, cigarette smoke, and his cologne. It makes her dizzy, like a sensory overload, and she has to suppress a ridiculous giggle. The tendrils of real happiness nudge her ribs.

And then they disintegrate, leaving only the burning ashes behind.

The door opens.

Rory squeezes her eyes shut, finding the air sucked out of the room.

Above her head, there is a sharp gasp and a hard thwack (her mother backing into the frame).

The door closes.

She still can't breathe.

-

"Nothing happened," she tells her mother quietly as she shuts her bedroom door behind her.

Lorelai sits at the kitchen table with a blank expression plastered on her face. "Don't you have class?"

"Afternoon," Rory answers. "I have two on Tuesday afternoons."

"Oh."

Rory sits down across from her mother, feeling the foundation of their relationship tremble. It's too delicate, she thinks; neither is ready for something like this.

"Nothing happened," she repeats, because to her something is sex, and nothing is what she and Jess are to anyone who asks. "He came over really late, and I think he was upset…" They are half truths, but truths nonetheless. Last night, she could tell he was off balance. "He asked if he could stay the night. I said yes."

"When you stayed with Jess last summer, did you ever sleep in his bed?" Lorelai asks.

"Yes."

"Where did Jess sleep?"

"Sometimes he slept on the couch, sometimes he slept next to me."

"And did you two also then feel the need to be crammed against each other?"

"Nothing happened last summer," Rory insists and here, finally, is a completely valid fact. Last summer may have been a small awakening for both of them, rediscovering how comfortable and enjoyable each other's company (still) is. Maybe if she really wants to, she can trace the situation now back to last summer, and their constant close proximity. But it had all been building since she accepted his apology. This year, it exploded.

"Rory, I am going to ask you a question, and I trust you enough to tell me the truth."

And she's trapped because she's so desperate to make things with her mother alright again, she wouldn't dare lie. "Okay," she agrees softly.

"Have you ever slept with Jess?"

"Yes."

There is a small sound, a gasp or a sigh or a groan; Rory can't tell. The disappointment is clear enough, however. It slices through her, mixing with the leftover ashes.

"And unless you were making things up, your first time was with Blake. After Jess was gone. Right?"

"Yes."

"Oh, Rory. I may not like Blake, but you two always got along well. He was nice to me when I met him, and your grandmother loves him…" She cuts herself off then, perhaps catching on. "You can't do this. It isn't fair to him."

"I know."

"Do you remember Dean? Is this becoming some hobby for you?"

"Wha – no. You're comparing this to Dean?"

"This is exactly like the Dean situation, but it's so much worse," Lorelai explains. "Back then, you may have strung Dean along but at least you weren't seeing Jess behind his back. Now? You've been with Blake for twice as long as you were with Dean, and you're _sleeping _with Jess?"

Rory stays silent, knowing that her own inability to answer will incriminate her. She feels foolish and guilty, sitting here in front of her mother, getting chastised. It's unbearable.

"How long?" Lorelai asks.

"January."

"Of this year?"

"Of course this year!" Rory snaps.

"Well, what do you expect me to think?"

"I expect you to understand that I made a mistake, but I don't know how to fix it. I expect you to help me and not yell at me because I already feel guilty enough."

"Which is the mistake?"

"What?"

"The mistake… you said you wanted to fix it. Well, which is the mistake?"

"I'm in love with Jess," Rory says, half answering.

"So break up with Blake."

"Grandma talked me out of it."

"You are not in a relationship with your grandmother," Lorelai reminds. "_Break_ up with Blake."

"I can't."

"You can do anything you want, Rory! Including sleeping with your ex. No one can stop you. Break. Up. With him."

"I should go take a shower, get dressed. I need to get back to Yale."

"You said your classes weren't until this afternoon."

"I need to finish my reading. I left the book in my dorm." Rory stands up, and turns, heading back for her bedroom.

"Rory, you don't have to stay with Blake to make my mother happy. You don't have to attend those functions or make appearances or sneak around with Jess."

Rory glances back at her mom, a distant look on her face. "I didn't want to break up with Dean because I didn't want to disappoint _you_ or the town."

"You didn't want to break up with Dean because you were _afraid_ of disappointing me and the town," Lorelai answers calmly. "You don't have to please everyone."

Rory moves back for the door, eyes on the wood, hand on the knob. Her veins are hardening, her muscles are stiffening, and she's certain her limbs have turned to stone. It's become impossible to walk or speak or breathe anymore; she's stuck, practically immobile, and the sensation is only increasing. This is how it's been for months now; it's getting worse.

"I'm always on your side. But you can't keep doing this."

Rory breaks, regroups, and walks through the door. Closing it behind her, she finds her bed empty, and it hurts so much that the room spins and her vision blurs and she has to sit down.

-

He feels torn in the most literal (and painful) sense. It is almost like being split in two, but the line is jagged, like a haphazard lightning bolt running down the center of his body. There is the rational side and the irrational one, each with their own appropriate thoughts. Last night was foolish on his part, starting something again that neither of them might be able to handle. He can't help it though; he likes falling asleep next to her.

But with the disappearing act he pulled, he can sure as hell bet he is going to need to do something for redemption. Once again he led her on, only to shut her out without a proper explanation. He'll have to seek her out within the next couple of days, and explain, although first, he needs to get his head on straight. Right now, he wouldn't know what to say.

An escape is what he needs. He's known that for the past few weeks; a nice break, like pressing the pause button, so he can take a step back and figure his life out. He likes his plan, and so far, thanks to a miraculously well-timed phone call, everything is working out.

"Yes, Jimmy… Alright! I will. Thursday morning. Yes, very soon. As a matter of fact, I booked it ten minutes before you called. I think I'm psychic; I should open one of those... What? No, I don't know what you do to sarcastic people… Sounds painful… _Alright_. Yes. Bye."

He hangs up and does the most unusual thing he can think of: he smiles.

As he places the phone back on its stand, he hears a knock at his door, and there is a slight hitch in his step. Once again, he finds Rory on his doorstep, wordless and beautiful. He tries to think of what to say, but she kisses him first.

_In the half light of the after-hours diner, she aches for him. It is a dull, throbbing pain that she can never pinpoint the location of. It often immerses her to the point where she cannot speak or move without worsening the sensation. He hurts. His presence hurts. Looking at him conjures up two images, ones that often overlap. First there is a dark bedroom, and his faraway answers; a tangible sadness and his body moving slowly, tantalizingly over hers. Then there are the two of them on the bus, a black and white snapshot with the edges tinged in red. The pictures explode like fireworks beneath her eyelids, and the pain is enough to send her to the door, making excuses for why she can no longer eat there._

_Tonight is different in the sense that the emotion is receding. The scars are closing up quietly, the stitches thin and fragile, ready to burst at any moment. His voice, the aloe, keeps going, however, not allowing for this to break again. Jess is giving her exactly what she asked for: reasons. Solid, real reasons. She wants to know what was going through his mind during his final weeks in Stars Hollow, and why he said nothing of value on the bus. She wants to know that he missed her, and felt guilty, and still does. She just wants to be put at ease, to understand, and at the beginning of the evening, she never thought she would be._

_Then, like a jigsaw puzzle, it all falls into place. The bigger picture is glaringly painful, a deep restlessness and a sense of losing control, but it's Jess and his reasons, so she takes a good look. She understands, she thinks. Why he ran. (Why he came back.) Why he didn't contact her._

_He never once says he sorry, but somehow, she gets that he is. She gets _him_. In a small voice, she asks if he found what he was looking for. After looking at her for a second too long, he simply tells her:_

_Yes._

In the doorway of his apartment, he kisses her back and wonders if she will slap him once he pulls away. He takes the chance and breaks contact, knowing he was an idiot to give in again. Frowning, she stares at him in confusion, waiting for an explanation.

"I didn't mean for this," he states.

Her eyes widen, and he can practically see the streak of anger run the length of her body like blue fire. Then, just as quickly, she deflates.

"You're the one screwing things up now."

"I… Shit. Rory, I shouldn't have —"

"Come over?"

"Kissed you."

"I don't…" She shakes her head. "Should I even be here?"

"Yes," he answers.

"Then what is this?"

"You said we were friends first."

"I meant that."

"Well?"

She glances down at her feet; he knows she's holding something back. But then she's staring straight back at him, and she's made up her mind. "So we're friends again?"

"Yeah."

"And you won't suddenly kick me out without a solid explanation?"

"I won't."

"Promise?"

"Jesus, Rory. I promise."

"And you'll let me in tonight and make us dinner?"

"I wasn't planning on cooking."

"But you were planning on eating."

"At some point." It takes him a moment to realize that the uneasiness has passed, and she's playing with him. She made the journey back to friendship in the blink of an eye; she's trying to get him to catch up.

"Then you cook, and I'll help."

"Are you going to set my kitchen on fire?"

"It's not as if I'll go out of my way to do it," she teases. "I'll make a salad." A pause. "Can I come in?"

"Yeah."

-

She makes good on her word. She sets two places at the coffee table in front of his couch, and pours each of them something to drink. Soda for the both of them, because even though he requests a beer, she pretends not to hear him.

As she takes out the ingredients for the salad, her cell phone rings. Checking the caller ID, she rolls her eyes, and sets the phone on the counter, ignoring it. Jess is able to guess who it is. He pictures Rory not picking up his calls, pushing him away. Somehow, it gets under his skin; the shill ring makes it worse.

"Rory, would you just fucking acknowledge the guy?"

She looks up at him in surprise, completely stung. Grabbing the phone, she puts it to her ear.

"Hi, Paris."

_Son of a_ –

"I can't tonight, I'm out with a friend. Tomorrow, okay? Yes, I'm very aware that finals are less than a month away. If you'd like, I'll hyperventilate after I eat dinner." She pauses. "No, I guess that wasn't very funny. I'll talk to you later."

She shuts off the phone and puts it back in its former place. The silence is so heavy that Jess can feel it pressing down on his lungs. Seemingly oblivious to any pressure, she goes back to retrieving the salad ingredients.

"Sorry," he mutters, shocking the hell out of himself.

She wants to tell him that she doesn't ignore Blake's phone calls. If her phone is off, it's off. If it's on, she answers. She wants to tell him that she tries not to be a horrible girlfriend, but the instinct to mouth off and rebel is coming in stronger and stronger, just as her instinct to please has only heightened over the years. Instead though, she stays quiet, entertaining the idea that her silence is making him squirm.

Then, as she cuts tomatoes for their salad, he tells her.

"I'm going to California."

There is a sharp, muffled cry, and she turns to him, her finger in her mouth. She's cut herself.

"For the weekend," he adds.

"You really need to finish your thoughts faster," she warns, studying her finger. Moving past him, she washes the wound in the sink, and dries it. When she turns, he's holding a box of Spongebob band aids. She smiles.

"When I snuck those into the cart, you said you were going to burn them as soon as you got home."

"I figured I'd save them for an occasion like this one," he says. Peering inside, he asks if she would like the "sponge wearing the tie" or the "squid with the stick up his ass".

"Patrick," she decides.

"And he would be?"

"The starfish."

She holds her hand out, and turns her head away, suddenly girlish and silly. He puts the band aid on, and then grabs her wrist to study his work.

"When are you going to California?"

"Thursday morning," he answers, looking up at her. He forgets to let go.

"Going to see your dad?"

"Yeah."

"Oh." She nods. "That's nice that you're going to see him and your sister."

"She's not my sister. He and Sasha aren't married."

She is about to reply when she glances down and retracts her hand from his hold. Suddenly taken with an idea, she asks in a small voice: "Can you leave Thursday night instead?"

"If I have a good reason."

"I'd like to come."

"Come where?"

"Your dad's," she answers.

"My dad's?"

"This conversation is going to be so much longer if you keep repeating what I say in the form of a question."

"You want to come."

"That was a statement. Better," she teases.

"You have class on Friday and dinner with your grandparents."

"I'll skip class, and make an excuse not to come on Friday. I just… Please, Jess? It'd be kind of nice to get away for a few days."

"Blake will go insane."

"I wasn't going to tell him."

"You're just going to…"

"Disappear. I'll tell my mom and then…" She shrugs.

Sometimes her irresponsibility catches him by surprise. She is never spontaneous or thoughtless except in his presence; he knows he brings this out in her. Taking her with him is probably one of the worst ideas yet, but he finds himself wanting to say yes. She wants to go for the same reason as him. She just wants to escape.

"So?" she prompts.

-

His secretary, Bethany, answers the phone, and Rory takes a deep breath, rehearsing what she has to say in her head.

"Richard Gilmore, please."

"He's in a meeting at the moment. May I take a message?"

"Hi, Bethany, this is his granddaughter."

"Oh, Rory! Hi, I didn't recognize your voice. Your grandfather is out for the afternoon. I think he went home, he seemed awfully tired."

"Oh, I don't want to disturb him…"

"It'd be a good idea not to, he's seemed stressed lately. Business problems, he keeps saying. Why don't you leave me the message, and I'll give it to him."

"Thanks, Bethany. Can you please tell him that I won't be able to make it to dinner Friday night? Something very important has come up."


	10. Ten

**A/N**: I know. I know! I've got plans for this story though, and I haven't given up. This chapter is dedicated to Marissa, Lorena, Lyds, Robin, and Ari. You girls are fab.

**Chapter Ten**: _Pale white like the skin stretched over your bones_

The sky is a watercolor dream of purple and pink as the pair makes their way down the boardwalk. It is Rory's first California sunset, so they linger at the edge of the beach to watch the scene. Her eyes twinkle as she watches the light shift, giving way to stars. For several seconds, she holds her breath and clings to Jess's arm, her smile childlike. She cannot properly express the excitement she feels being here with him, so far away.

_The edge of the world_, she thinks. _I'm__ on the edge of the world._

By the time they arrive at Jimmy's house, the sky has dimmed to a dusky shade of obsidian. They are forced to blindly navigate through a yard full of barking dogs that show no consideration for personal space. When they finally reach the porch, they find the house dark and quiet.

"I knew you made them up!" Rory announces triumphantly. She drops her bag in a rush to look through the windows. It narrowly misses Jess's feet.

"They're very real," he assures her, spotting a note attached to the front door. "See? Evidence." He pulls Rory closer to the porch light, so they can read it together.

_Jess – _

_You are not reading this. We beat you home. If not, Jimmy will be forced to spend the night outside, sleeping with the dogs. No pillow, blanket, or socks. These are the conditions, clearly stated in this letter. (Yes, Jimmy. I am serious.) He swore we would have time to pick up dinner before you arrived._

_You're__ reading this, aren't you? I should have known not to trust him._

_– Sasha_

Jess shakes his head and tries the door, finding it unlocked. He pulls his duffle bag higher up on his shoulder before grabbing Rory's luggage and heading inside. She follows him with small steps, suddenly shy.

Jess flips on the lights as they pass through the living room and hall before taking a sharp left into his old room. He drops their bags onto the bed and begins to rummage through his while Rory hesitates in the doorway. She surveys the room, finding it, for the most part, bare. The walls are the generic waiting room beige, a color obviously picked out without Jess's consent. Furniture is sparse and antediluvian, held together by extra nails and hidden duct tape. The bookcase leans, the bureau is stained. Only the bed appears new, stripped down to the bright blue mattress. A set of sheets are thoughtfully laid out on the adjacent nightstand table, along with two spare pillows. Rory sees this and smiles, realizing why Jess likes it here.

As Jess unpacks, she ducks out of the room and back the way they came. She means to head into the kitchen and investigate the state of the cabinets – she cannot remember if Jess mentioned his family is into the soy or vegetable variety which would mean certain starvation for her – but stops before she reaches the end of the hall. There are family pictures lining the wall.

She identifies each member easily in a family portrait, taken at one of those cheap department stores by an outdated camera. Their background is snowy – pure white against formerly green trees – as opposed to the usual sunshine most people pick. Rory almost laughs. She moves farther down the wall of memories, progressing from Lily's baby pictures to present day. She ends up in the living room where she finds snapshots of Jess, protected by polished frames, his face distant behind glass.

Her shyness changes into something heavier, like steel churning in her stomach. She tastes the metal in her mouth, cold and wholly unpleasant. Jess is smiling. He is turned away from the camera, staring at Jimmy who is working the grill. Lightly, she touches his face through the glass, but immediately feels guilty when she leaves a smudge print behind. She moves to the next picture.

On the beach, Jess stares at the ocean, dressed in a thin T-shirt and swim trunks. His look is distant, almost whimsical. She wonders if he knew he was being photographed. The sun is low in the picture, setting on a day he has spent here, on his own, happy with his new family. She wonders: did he work that day? See friends? Did he think about her? Had he been thinking about her as the camera went off, capturing his weakness forever on film?

"Excuse me?" A female voice asks from behind. It startles Rory so badly she jumps and spins into the wall, rattling the frames. The front door slams and from down the hall, she hears Jess approaching.

"Who are you?" Sasha asks, balancing two pizzas in her hands while trying to look stern. The expression fails. The woman is too naturally cheerful to appear threatening to anyone but Jimmy.

Rory turns red, growing nervous that Sasha has not realized she is Jess's guest. "I'm Rory," she manages to say.

Jess appears beside her, and she breathes in a sigh of relief. "Hey," he says. "This is Rory. I told Jimmy about her on the phone."

"Jimmy?" Sasha turns and gives the man a look.

"I could have sworn I told you," he insists. "I said, 'Sash, Jess is bringing a friend along' and you said, 'The more the merrier.'"

"No, I think that's what you imagined I'd say had you actually told me."

Jess clears his throat, and both adults look back at him. "If you want, Rory and I can stay at a motel. It's no big deal either way…"

Lily, hanging by the front door, suddenly comes to life and loudly insists that Jess should stay _here_. Jimmy and Sasha simultaneously shake their head to dispute his comment as well. Trying to hide herself behind Jess, Rory feels like the odd woman out, afraid she will be voted off. This is the first situation she has been in where Jess is favored over her.

"Of course you two will stay here. One of you will take the couch, and the other the bed," Sasha explains. "It's no trouble at all. We have enough room."

"What about dinner?" Jimmy asks.

"Look how thin she is," Sasha says, gesturing to Rory. "How much can she eat?"

-

Jess hides his smirk behind his hand, as Rory begins her fifth piece of pizza.

"You gonna share any time soon?" he asks.

She freezes mid-bite and looks around the table to find Sasha, Jimmy, and Lily staring at her. She quickly swallows and wipes her mouth with her napkin.

"Too much?" she whispers, leaning closer to Jess so no one else will hear.

"Not if you were eating by yourself."

"Sorry," she mumbles. She shoves her plate toward him. "Want some?"

"How nice of you to offer."

She stares down at the table and takes a sip of her drink.

"Hey Jess, how's the job?" Jimmy asks.

"The exact same last time we talked."

Rory rolls her eyes at the terse answer. "The job's going great," she says. "He gets lots of tips and saves helpless women from crazy drunks."

Jess shakes his head. "I threaten one guy and suddenly you think I'm a hero."

"Well, I appreciated the gesture. He looked scary, sitting there like a lump in his alcohol haze."

Jess shoots her a pointed look. "You're losing your grateful tone."

"So Rory," Sasha interrupts. "How do you know Jess?"

"In high school, he served me coffee every morning before I caught the bus," Rory explains with a wistful smile. "My mom and I used to depend on Luke's diner for our meals."

"As opposed to now?" Jess asks. "You still can't cook."

"I'm learning!"

"Macaroni and cheese doesn't count," he reminds her.

"Ha-ha," she deadpans. "I don't need to learn," she tells the rest of the table. "Jess cooks for me."

Sasha and Jimmy share a private glance, a silent realization passing between them.

Jess rubs his forehead in mock annoyance. "You think that's going to last forever?"

"Sure," she says. "You'll never let me go hungry." She grins and touches his leg underneath the table, a quick brush of her fingers against the fabric of his jeans. Her expression is friendly and silly, so he nods in reply.

"Of course not."

-

"Is it safe?"

"Don't be a princess," Jess warns as he takes off the couch cushions and pulls out the mattress.

"It's a valid question," Rory insists as she watches him make up the bed for her. She is surprised he hasn't asked for help. It seems whenever she needs something, he switches onto auto-pilot.

He pulls the sheet tight and grabs a couple of pillows from the armchair. "I've slept on this before. Many times. It held my weight just fine."

"Yeah, how many years ago?" She drops her overnight bag onto the bed. The center sinks beneath the weight, the springs creaking dangerously.

"Just be grateful they didn't make you sleep outside with the dogs."

Rory pauses in her search for pajamas and looks up at him in fear. "They wouldn't."

"Act grateful tomorrow morning."

She shoots him an irritated look. "Funny," she deadpans as she pulls her shirt over her head. His mouth opens as her skin is revealed, smooth and untouchable. In the dim light of the lamp, she looks tragically pale, like a beautiful death.

"I'm sure you wouldn't let them kick me out. You love me too much." She winks playfully, oblivious to the torture.

She unzips her jeans and tugs them off her legs. He thinks: how many times has she done this in front of him? How many times have they been just like this?

Finally, he says, "Rory, what are you doing?"

He gets an eyeful as she bends over to step into her shorts. Unconsciously, he licks his lips.

"Changing?" It's a question.

In his mind, a strap slips off her shoulder and he moves to fix it for her. She touches his waist, sneaks a hand beneath his undershirt.

He makes a noise, something halfway between a grunt and a sigh. He waves his arms at her, gesturing toward her upper body, as he fumbles for the right words.

She gives herself a once over confused. Realization dawns and she blushes. Blushes! He can't believe it.

"I'm changing," she says again, quieter this time. "That's it."

"You undressed in front of me."

She pulls her shirt on quickly. "And redressed!" She crosses an arm over her chest, choosing _now_ to be self-conscious. "I know you're with Megan, Jess. And I don't want to ruin that for you." She looks away from him, rocking back and forth on her heels. "I just feel comfortable in front of you. That's it."

He chooses not to reply, not wanting to get into this particular subject. Instead, he mumbles, "It's late. We should both sleep."

She nods but stays silent.

He has to go by her to get into the hall. He grazes her chin as he passes. "Goodnight," he says.

Her image follows him into his room as he crawls into bed and slips beneath the sheets, finally in the one place where she is entirely his. He closes his eyes and he is back in the living room, his tongue tasting the hollow of her throat. He has her backed up against the arm of the couch, and she's pleading in his ear. 'Jess' she moans, her breath hot and sweet against his cheek. '_Jess_.'

"Jess."

He springs into an upright position, shocked to find her in his doorway.

"I just wanted to say goodnight," she whispers before turning away, disappearing into the dark.

-

A minor earthquake startles him awake. He glances over to find Rory lying beside him, the portable phone in her hand.

"Sasha says it's for you."

The sun is bright and leaking in through the window. He groans from the sensory overload and blindly swipes the phone from Rory.

"Hello?"

"I'm going to kill you," the voice says.

Jess sits up, startled. "Blake?" Rory grabs his wrist, looking terrified.

"No, dipshit, it's Ted. Do you have multiple people trying to kill you?"

Jess sinks back against the pillows and covers his face as Rory kicks him in the leg. He shakes his head and she visibly relaxes, resting her head against his shoulder.

"You'd be surprised," Jess mutters.

"How could you not call and tell me you were back?" Ted demands.

"I just got in. _Last night_."

Ted scoffs. "Not an excuse!"

"I'm so sorry," Jess mutters tonelessly. "I should have immediately called you as soon as the plane touched down."

"Damn right!" Ted lets out a sigh of frustration, playing the part of the clingy friend well. "You could have called ahead of time."

"I'll make it up to you," Jess tells him, turning onto his side. Rory is closer than he realized, lying on her back, looking up at the ceiling. Her hair tickles his face as he surreptitiously moves closer, inhaling the scent of her shampoo.

"We're meeting for lunch today," Ted decides. "Let's say noon? You know where."

"What makes you think I don't have anything planned today?" At this Rory taps him on the shoulder, but he ignores her.

"You don't. I'll see you later." As an afterthought, he adds, "And don't be late. I'm sick of waiting on your sorry ass."

"Yeah, okay." Jess drops the phone onto the mattress.

"Get dressed," Rory immediately orders. "Find your swim trunks and let's go!"

"No can do."

"Sasha said she's going to bring Lily, me, and you to the beach today."

Jess holds up the phone. "I've got plans."

Her face sours. "But you promised you'd bring me to the beach."

"Sasha's bringing you."

"You have to come too." She bends her knees and rests the bottom of her feet on his legs. She pushes gently, reminding him of the beginning of a temper tantrum. Any second now, he's sure she'll start to swing, tears streaming down her face.

"A friend of mine wants to have lunch." He pauses at her expression. "Don't look so surprised. I have friends."

"Sure," she nods, obviously not convinced. "Is this an imaginary friend?"

"Rory, shut up and get going."

"Fine," she pouts and climbs out of bed. As she backs out the room, she tells him, "This doesn't count as you bringing me to the beach!"

"Whatever," he mumbles, hiding his head beneath a pillow.

-

The sun is warm beneath her feet as she slathers on the sun screen. Lily is hiding beneath an umbrella, a worn copy of _Great Expectations_ in her hands. Sasha is sprawled out on a towel beside Rory, soaking up the rays.

"Thanks," Rory says, handing the tube back to Sasha. She lies down on her stomach and rests her head on her arms, enjoying the sheet of sun that covers her back.

Sasha smiles. "No problem." Since the night before, she has obviously warmed up to Rory. She has noticed the change in Jess when Rory is around, the spark that exists between the two.

"Is this your first time in California?" Sasha asks.

Rory nods. "It's my first time on the West Coast, actually."

"Not a big traveler?"

"Oh no." Rory hurries to assure her, "I love to travel. I went backpacking in Europe before I began college. I've been all around the Northeast. All I want to do is travel."

Sasha laughs. "If it only it were that simple."

"I want to be an overseas correspondent," Rory explains. "I want traveling to be my job."

"That's one way to go about it. But wait 'til the responsibilities hit you," Sasha warns. "After college, everything changes. It will be a while before you'll be able to do what you want."

"Yeah, I know." Rory shrugs. "But I'm excited. Graduation is almost here."

"You'll enjoy it," Sasha promises. "No matter the difficulties, it's going to be something great."

"I hope." Rory scrunches her nose up in thought. "I've been thinking of moving to New York, see what's up there."

"I hear doubt."

Rory raises her eyebrows in surprise. She's known Sasha for barely a day and already the woman's picking up on her subtleties.

"It seems as if every 'budding' journalist heads there," Rory air quotes. "Maybe it's a cliché for me to move there. Maybe I'm better off staying in Connecticut."

"You want to stay in Connecticut?"

Rory shrugs. "There's newspapers everywhere. I can go anywhere, really."

"Isn't CNN headquarters in New York? The _New York__ Times _too. With what you want to do, it seems like the city would be the best place to go."

"I don't know." Rory ducks her head sheepishly, closing her eyes against the blinding sun. "I guess." She bites her lip wondering why she's even discussing this with Sasha.

"So you and Jess," Sasha says knowingly. "How long?"

Rory's eyes fly open. "Excuse me?"

"How long have you two been dating?"

"We… we're not…" Rory trails off. Suddenly, the sun is too hot and scorching her skin.

"It's okay," Sasha tells her. "I won't play any kind of 'motherly figure card' and threaten you bodily harm. I'm just curious."

Rory stares down into the sand, finding it difficult to take a breath. The heat is thick in her throat, stuck to her lips, heavy on her tongue.

"Since January," she finally answers. "This year."

"Not as long as I thought," Sasha admits.

"We dated in high school," Rory explains. "In my senior year. It ended really badly but ever since he came back to Connecticut, it's been… really good."

Sasha reaches over and pats Rory's hand. "I'm happy for you guys."

Rory smiles. "I'm happy too."

-

"Cheeseburger platter," Ted orders. Jess asks for the same. The waitress nods and slips the pencil behind her ear before walking off.

"So… where the hell have you been? You don't call, you don't write. I'm hurt, Jess."

"Oh god."

"I'm kidding, although it wouldn't hurt to pick up the phone once in a while." Ted takes a sip of his water. "But you have excellent timing."

"For what?"

Ted leans forward, looking excited. "I have a proposition for you."

"Is this illegal? Or is it going to cost me money?" Jess asks, prepared for his friend's antics. Ted is one of the schemer types, always looking for an easy way to make money. His occupation is thinking up harebrained ideas that only succeed in landing him in jail and begging his friends – namely Jess when he lived there – to bail him out.

"Neither," Ted answers excitedly. "This is big, Jess. And it's going to work. This is going to be my future, and yours too. This is going to bring us in money and success and _we'll_ get to be the bosses. And – "

"Brevity is the soul of wit, Polonius," Jess quotes. "Can you get to the point?"

Ted bangs the table with his fist sending the silverware clattering into each other. More than a few concerned patrons look over. "That's it, Jess. That is exactly why I'm asking you!"

"Asking me what?"

"To be an editor at my very own publishing company."

Jess's jaw drops. This? Is so not what he expected. "Excuse me?"

"I've got several people interested in starting a small publishing company. You know, getting out those first time authors, taking risks on the disturbing and shoddy stories." Ted jiggles his knee as he speaks, obviously excited. "One of the people interested is _rich_, Jess. As soon as I get the loan from the bank, this guy wants to be really involved. I just need that loan and I am guaranteed extra cash from him to get us started."

"Ted…"

"And you will be one of my editors. I see you reading all the time, scribbling girly notes in the margins. You take a few night classes, I print you a diploma, and that's it! I know you'll be good, Jess. I know you don't need some expensive college education to be valuable here."

Jess stares at him a long time, somewhat touched by his words. An editor? He can do that. It would doing what he does in his spare time, but getting paid for it. This is an opportunity, Jess realizes. This is something he needs. This is the something extra that will fill the void in his life and actually make him _happy_.

"Count me in," Jess tells him.

"Fuck yeah!" Ted hollers. "Waiter? Where the hell is our waitress? Hey? I want wine! This table, a huge bottle of wine!" Ted hits the table again. "We need to celebrate!"


	11. Eleven

**A/N**: I heart Arianna.

**Chapter Eleven**: _I'll__ be a brand new day in a life that you hate_

It is ghost hour when he rouses her from sleep and pulls her out of his bed. She is groggy and disoriented but trusts him enough to follow his lead. As they navigate the yard in the dark, her hand tight in his, she wakes up enough to ask him where they are going.

"I promised to take you to the beach."

"But it's the middle of the night," she points out.

"And?"

And nothing. She lets him lead her through the empty streets. They pass blackened store fronts and empty outside eateries. There is no light, no people, and she wonders if she and Jess are the only two left in the world.

The sand is soft and cool beneath her feet. Jess warns her to watch out for broken glass and other potentially dangerous detritus after he notices she has removed her shoes and stuck them under her arm. He pointedly tells her that he will under no circumstances carry her if she is mortally wounded. She shrugs and curls her toes, laughing softly.

"Where were you tonight?" she asks. "You said you were going out for lunch and then you never came back." She tilts her head, sniffs the air and finds he smells vaguely of alcohol. The scent turns her stomach.

He sits in the sand and she drops down beside him. The breeze leaves a sprinkling of goosebumps across her skin; she shivers.

"I came back a little after you went to bed," he says. "_My_ bed," he adds. "You were supposed to be on the couch."

"Sasha said you were rude for abandoning me, so I should steal your bed." Rory shrugs, a playful smile tugging at her lips. "I thought she was giving me very sage advice."

_Sasha_. Jess remembers what he wants to say to Rory. There is the news of his opportunity, the new life that Ted has presented him. On his way home from a night drinking with Ted and a few of the guys ("a social get-together," Ted had called it, insisting it sounded less crude), all he could think about was sitting down with Rory to tell her how his life had changed over the course of one meal. But Jimmy and Sasha had intercepted him before he could wake her up. Now there is something else.

"Jess." Her tone has switched from light to worried. "How much did you have to drink?"

"Oh geez." He covers his face with a hand, and rubs his eyes. "You are _not_ starting this again."

"Don't go on the defensive."

"I was out tonight with some old friends. Social drinking, Rory. It's the same thing the elite do at all those dinner parties you attend."

Her jaw tightens. "You're kind of being an asshole. I thought you took me here so we could have fun."

He looks away toward the waves, not knowing what to say. He feels funny around her, awkward and off-balance. It's not just the alcohol but what Jimmy has told him, _offered_ him. Rory's playing games again.

"I don't want you drinking anymore."

He whips his head around. "Excuse me?"

She takes a deep breath but does not falter. "I've been wanting to say that for awhile now. Just… don't, okay? Please?"

"You're kidding, right?"

"Jess." She speaks softly, trying to get him to agree. His chest constricts as she wraps him tighter around her finger.

"Since when do you dictate my life?" It's a stupid question; she's been doing it for years.

She shakes her head. "I don't." How generous of her to concede. "I'm asking as a friend for you to not do it." She touches his hand, spilling sand over his fingers. The rushing of the waves fills the void that falls. His skin is cold as she removes her hand from his, disappointed.

"Okay," he tells her quietly.

"Do you want to go swimming?" she asks abruptly as if he hasn't just given in.

"Swimming," he echoes.

"Yeah." She acts quickly before the uneasiness can settle, before he can change his mind. "We're having fun tonight. You _did_ wake me up."

"Wait, Rory – "

"Relax," she says as she slips off her shorts, misinterpreting his words. "The underwear is staying on." She tugs on his hand. "Come on!"

As soon as he stands she pulls on the hem of his shirt. He bats her away and tugs it off, and she shoots him an appreciative smile.

"It's going to be cold," he tells her.

She ignores him and runs down toward the water, shrieking as she wades in. Hesitantly, he follows, trying to figure out how to broach the subject he so desperately needs to bring up. The water hits him sharply, stealing his breath. It's _freezing_.

"So tell me about your friends," Rory requests as bends her knees, the water level rising around her. Her hair just brushes the surface.

"There's no much to say."

"Oookay." She draws out the word. "Then tell me who called this morning."

"Ted."

She scrunches her nose in disgust. "As in Bundy?"

"He's more of a Ted Logan."

"Ah." She nods knowingly. "Dude."

"He wanted to catch up," Jess explains. "And then we ended up celebrating." He is about to tell her for what when she dives underwater.

Seconds later she pops back up, shivering and breathless. "Wow," she stutters, her teeth chattering together. "If I wasn't awake before…"

"What did you tell Sasha about us?"

"I am now," she finishes softly.

He moves toward her, slicing through the water. His skin is frightfully pale in the moonlight, but his body is vibrant, thriving on the emotion he directs toward her.

"Today when you were here, what did you tell her?" The news of his success is lost as anger overcomes him, nagging him to find out what in the world she was thinking.

"Nothing."

"Bullshit," he snaps. "When I came home tonight, Jimmy and Sasha pulled me into their room, so they could give me Jimmy's grandmother's wedding ring. A fucking ring, Rory!"

She shrinks under him, her lips trembling, her shoulders shaking. She thinks she's going to cry.

"They told me they wanted me to have it for _you_. That you seemed so happy when you talked to Sasha, how could it _not_ last?" He tilts her chin up she will look him in the eye. "When you told Sasha we were together, did it somehow escape you that you have a boyfriend of over _three_ years back home?"

She swats his hand away and swims in the opposite direction, needing so badly to be away from him.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" he calls after her. His harsh tone cuts her easily, and she watches the surrounding water turn red.

She spins around, some distance away. "I'm sorry," she chokes out. "I know you're with Megan and – "

"Yeah, you keep saying that. You know what? I'm not with Megan. We broke up because of you." He pauses and shakes his head, as if he cannot believe how ridiculous he is. "Wait, we would have to have been actually _dating_ to break up. We never started because of you."

Her eyes are wide as she listens, her heart lodged into her throat. She feels faint as she tries to find the words, any words that will placate him. His anger is lethal and slowly crushing her. She hears a bone snap as he stares her down, his expression unforgiving.

She swims back toward him, stopping directly in his path. She stares up at him with dull eyes, wondering how she is still solid.

"Sasha asked me how long we've been dating. I didn't correct her."

"No you just confirmed it," he says.

"Don't you wonder what it'd be like if you and I were together right now? Doesn't it _ever_ occur to you?" Her voice pleads with him; tell me, she begs, tell me you think about it too.

"That's not the point, Rory, because we are _not_ together."

She bites her lip until she tastes blood. With a gulp of sea air, a swallow of metallic red, she plunges. "I want us to be."

"Rory." He sighs because he wants it too. But she can't, they can't. She knows that!

"I want us to be together for real. I want us to be the couple that goes out on dates and holds hands in public." She pauses, waiting for the courage that never comes. "I'm in love with you."

The waves sweep him away, carry him toward sea. He drifts in and out, a tumble of blue clouding his vision. He watches her fade from sight, a pinprick of hope on the horizon.

"Jess." His name, her lips. "I love you." When he doesn't answer, she swallows over the lump in her throat. "I'm breaking up with Blake when we go back. I don't want to do it anymore – live a life that my grandmother chooses for me. I don't want to be that girl, someone of society and money. I don't want any of that!" She touches his wrist gently, cool air over his skin. "I want you. I want _us_. I don't care about anything else."

Silence. Just a pulse, distant and slow as she leans toward him and kisses his mouth. With a hand on either cheek, she is desperate, begging for him to kiss her back.

He does.

He wraps an arm around her back and pulls her flush against him, sliding a hand beneath her shirt. His entire body aches with want as the blood rushes through him, dizzy in all directions. He feels the throb of need, and he lets his senses go, disappearing inside her.

-

There is a freckle in the space between her breasts, a familiar mark he reads like Braille. He kisses her skin tenderly but her hands are urgent, pulling him down roughly. She wraps her legs around his waist and bites his shoulder, surprising him.

"Rory." He nuzzles her neck, smoothing down her damp hair.

She relaxes beneath him, calmed by his voice, the way he says her name. She sighs happily, ignoring the racing of her heart as it tries to shatter her ribcage and break out of her chest. With a hand on his back, she holds him to her, never wanting to let go.

"I love you," she tells him and he feels a release. It is the same he felt earlier but more intense, as if her words are borne with a fiery edge.

He breathes out and kisses her mouth, tracing her lips with his tongue.

-

Morning approaches slowly, not wanting to be a disturbance. The sun is bright but unnoticed as it replaces the moon.

"Okay, your turn," Rory says. "What's the one place you want to go to more than anywhere else?"

Jess muses for a moment before responding with, "Kansas City."

"What?" She turns her head to look at him. Both are side by side on his bed, the linens pulled over their heads. Under the sheets, it is dark and still, like a frozen moment of the two of them. "You can't give me an answer like that and not explain why."

"It's a long story."

She drapes an arm across his chest. "Tell me."

He shakes his head, mostly out of wonder for why she would want to hear this. "Fine."

"Yay!" She lets out a small squeal of excitement. "Story time."

"I got stuck in detention a lot when I lived in New York."

"Surprise, surprise," she mumbles.

He ignores her and continues. "By seventh grade, I had finished copying the school handbook… twice."

"Twice?" She laughs. "Geez Jess, how often were you there?"

"At one point, I was in there every afternoon. Some days, I don't think I had it, but I was so used to going there, I just did."

"Why break routine?" she asks, amused.

"Exactly." He nods, the side of his face brushing against her hair. She kisses his neck and waits for him to continue. "I was always stuck in this classroom with tons of books. They had high school reading books and atlases and dictionaries… like a whole wall of this stuff."

"Nice place for detention," she says, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "You weren't even being punished!"

"I discovered Hemingway in there."

"Oh boy."

"And I noticed he had this recurring location."

"Kansas City," she fills in for him.

"Yep. So I planned the trip."

Her eyes widen. "You planned it?"

"I had nothing better to do."

"So are you flying or driving?"

"Flying," he answers. "First class on American Airlines."

"Window or aisle seat?"

"Aisle."

She looks up at him in surprise. He really has this figured out. "Why not window? You're not afraid of heights."

"Imagine being stuck next to a screaming kid for hours with no chance of escape except for climbing over him and his mother."

"Ah, noted." She smiles against his shoulder, a tingling rocking her body; a side effect of being so close to him. "So what was the worst thing you ever did? I mean, you were in detention so much." She's not sure why she and Jess are having such a heart-to-heart this morning, but after last night, she feels like telling him everything. She wants to open herself up and let him see everything.

"Arson."

"Are you serious?" She's floored. "You set a fire!"

"Not on purpose," he defends. "Me and a bunch of friends we're having a smoke… we put it out in the wrong spot."

"Oh god." She laughs again. "You're pretty bad with where you smoke." She rests her chin on his chest, and smiles up at him. "Remember that night when we kissed at the gas station? It was our first real kiss as a couple?" He nods silently, transfixed. "You were about to smoke a cigarette as you leaned against a gas pump!"

"I was distracted."

"Oh really?" She kisses a trail up his chest, pausing at the hollow of his throat. "By what?"

"So we're playing this game?" he asks. He kisses her forehead, and runs a hand down her back. "I've always wondered where you went that night."

She groans. "I never told you?"

"Nope."

She sighs, hiding her face in his neck. "I went to see Dean."

"Dean? Huh." He thinks he should feel bad but at this moment, nothing can touch him.

"I climbed a tree and knocked on his window," Rory confesses.

"And you'd rather play wilderness girl than kiss me?" His tone is playful and she's surprised.

"I felt so guilty about the way things ended between us. And I didn't want to associate kissing you with guilt."

He cups her cheek, looking at her thoughtfully. As if answering the unasked question, she kisses him softly.

"No guilt," she whispers when she pulls away.

He kisses her again, pushing her onto her back; she revels in the feel of his weight against her. Sighing, she traces absent figure eights on his back, thinking: this is it; this is the rest of her life.

A knock at the bedroom doors interrupts their kiss. Without waiting for an answer, the door opens and Jimmy steps inside. Rory's eyes widen, silently asking Jess if what she thinks happened, really just did.

"Uh, Jess?"

"Yeah, Jimmy?" Jess answers from beneath the sheets.

"Breakfast is ready."

"Good to know."

"Is that, uh, is that Rory under there with you?"

She blushes and covers her face even though Jimmy can't see her.

"It is."

"Um, right. Tell her breakfast's ready?"

"Can do."

After the door closes, Rory laughs into Jess's chest, and he thinks he can stay like this forever.


	12. Twelve

**A/N**: Thanks to Becka for betaing! And I was going to dedicate this chapter to Robin, but then I decided to just dedicate the entire story to her. ;)

**Chapter Twelve**: _Spring keeps you ever close_

Her smile is different. The way she looks at him is different. Even her touch feels new, like something he has yet to fully experience.

At breakfast, she lays a hand over his in plan view of Jimmy. At lunch, she rests her elbow on the back of his chair and runs her fingers though his hair. At dinner, she initiates a game of footsie and laughs at her own immaturity.

Between meals, time inches by, and the pair hides in Jess's bedroom. They talk about absolutely nothing, the conversation surprisingly fulfilling, and watch a foreign movie that neither recognizes on a local cable access channel. Afterward, she naps on his chest as he flips through her worn copy of _Anna_ _Karenina_. On a random page, driven by a tingling he cannot describe, he writes her name in the upper left corner. Beneath it, he prints three simple words; the one thing he is afraid to say aloud.

_I__ love you_.

>

She laughs for the hundredth time that day. It is sweet and melodic, like a young girl's, and drowns out the music that drifts across the beach.

"I'm so excited," she breathes, nearly breaking into a skip. He shakes his head and wraps an arm around her waist, unable to keep from touching her.

"Your excitement is unfounded. It's just a beach party."

"Organized by your friends!" she points out. Up ahead, a bonfire flickers, turning the surrounding sand orange and red.

"Organized is such a strong word. Try randomly thrown together…"

"I've never met _any_ of your friends," Rory continues as if he hasn't spoken. "I only knowof Len because sometimes he was behind the bar instead of you."

"So," she prompts, giving him a sideways glance, "who are these friends of yours?"

"Don't you want to be surprised?"

"Jess. Come on. Tell me something."

"Alright." He gives in. "There's Ted. He's short, immature, and has this irritating need to get rich. He will try to get you into bed, and the moment he sees you, he will be picturing you naked."

"That's… nice." She forces a smile. "I'm looking forward to making his acquaintance."

"Then there's Liam. He's Irish, accented, and much less perverted than most of the people you'll meet tonight. However, it's impossible to carry on a conversation with him because he speaks so god damn softly."

She reaches behind her back and threads her fingers through his. "He sounds sweet."

"Joe is scary. Do not talk to Joe."

"Why not?"

"Joe wants to save the world. And I don't just mean in the environmentalist kind of way but in the Clark Kent / Superman, phone booth, fight crime kind of way." He lowers his voice and tells her in mock confidence, "He has a cape, Rory."

She laughs again, and he fights the urge to kiss her mouth. "He sounds sweet too."

"Don't ask him about his tattoo."

"Why? What is it?"

"Just don't ask him. He'll lecture you for hours about the crises all around the world."

"If he's such a pain, why is he your friend?"

Jess shrugs. "When he's not concerned with third world countries, he's pretty fucking fun to hang out with."

"Ah."

Their footsteps slow as they approach the party. Rory's grip on Jess tightens as her nerves take hold of her.

"What if they don't like me?" she asks.

"There's one foolproof way that will guarantee that they'll like you."

She jumps in front of him to prevent him from walking further. "What is it?"

"Take your top off."

She scoffs, shaking her head in disgust. She is about to head for the bonfire without him when she turns and gives him a coquettish smile. "Ask me again in a few hours."

He smirks. "Sounds good."

>

Her first mistake: she asks about the tattoo. This is what happens when Jess abandons her to "talk business" with Ted without pointing out who Super Joe is first.

The '86' on his right forearm is huge and bold and begs for her attention. At this point, she doesn't know who he is.

He catches her staring and graciously asks her name. At her answer, his boyish grin widens. "Jess's Rory?"

"How'd you know?"

"Word spreads fast at these parties. You tell one person, and they tell another…"

Rory nods knowingly. "I live in a town like that."

He winces sympathetically. "Tough." He pauses and gestures to his arm. "Curious?"

She blushes. "Yes. I'm sorry I was…" And then it clicks. "Joe?" she asks.

"Yep, that's me. And this eighty-six? That's the number of stray dogs you could save from being put to sleep. A _year._"

"O – oh. That's… good to know." Her investigative instinct pushes her to ask what year this statistic is from and if it's even reliable. Somehow, she manages to keep quiet.

"Do you have any pets?" He scratches at the stubble on his chin.

"Nope. My mom and I had a dog for about two weeks when I was eight, but it ran away when I forget to close the shed door."

Joe's jaw drops, and Rory knows she has said the wrong thing. "Did you look for him?"

"Of course." She shifts uncomfortably, wishing Jess would reappear and rescue her. "We put up lost posters all over town. Although we didn't have a picture, but we made up a pretty apt description: medium-size, scraggly, salt and pepper fur, half an ear gone."

"Did you go into other towns?" Joe asks eagerly. "Call the police?"

Rory refrains from pointing out that it was a stray dog to begin with and that people generally do _not_ call the cops about a lost canine. "No?" she says meekly.

"You just let him… go!"

"I didn't, I mean…" She stutters out. "We tried and – "

She is cut off by an arm around her shoulder and an 'I-told-you-so' look issued by Jess before he addresses Joe. "I just ran into Cindy, and she was going on and on about the whale oil industry. Her new boyfriend has ancestors traceable to Nantucket."

"Are you kidding? If you'll excuse me, Rory."

As soon as Joe is out of sight, she throws herself at Jess and mumbles a thank-you in his ear. "I am so listening to you from now on."

"I knew you'd learn someday."

"So did you find Ted?" she asks as they head down the beach.

"He's very evasive tonight. I keep running into people that have seen him, but _I_ can't find him."

She pats his shoulder. "Poor you."

"Hey, Ron?" Jess taps a redhead on the shoulder. "Have you seen Ted?"

"Yeah, I saw him like three minutes ago. He was heading…" Ron glances around before gesturing behind him, "that way."

Rory watches Jess scan the throngs of chatting and dancing people. "Are you leaving me by myself?"

"I'll be back in a few. Avoid Joe and find the keg."

"A keg? You're not drinking tonight."

"Yeah, we'll talk about that later," Jess says before walking away.

She sighs. "Alone again."

>

Rory finds an abandoned lawn chair and sits, smiling to herself. The past twenty-four hours have been dreamlike, as if she, Jess, and California are a reality separate from everything else. Being near Jess is like having an out-of-body experience. She floats.

"Hey, want a drink? I didn't, you know, slip anything in it."

Rory glances up to find a man that reminds her of her former editor Doyle. He is clean-cut and short with brown hair and a goofy grin, clutching an unopened beer in each hand.

"Can I try that again?" he asks. "That didn't, you know, come out right."

"Um…"

"Pretty drink for a pretty girl." He offers her the drink and then retracts his hand. "Pretty drink? This isn't…" He trails off and sits in an adjacent lawn chair.

"I have a boyfriend," Rory says, hoping this little fact will make him go away. Her stomach does a flip when she realizes that this is the first time she is referring to Jess, not Blake.

_Blake_. The idea of him is unfamiliar and unwelcome in her mind. She doesn't want to think of him while she is here and so happy; she doesn't want to be reminded. He is an issue that she doesn't have to worry about until tomorrow. And after that, never again.

"Wait, wait, before you turn me down," the man begins, "let me introduce myself."

"I have a _real _boyfriend," Rory explains. "He actually exists. He's big too." She mimes a muscleman's pose. "Very strong."

"I'm Ted." The man offers his hand as if Rory hasn't shot him down. Twice.

"Wait, Ted? Jess's Ted?"

"Rory?"

"How do you – do you people have some sort of spy network set up?"

"Sorry about the whole hitting on you thing." He offers her the beer. "Here. Consider it a friendship drink."

"Uh, thanks." She takes a sip. "Jess has been looking everywhere for you."

"He'll catch up with me eventually. This party isn't _that _big."

"Seems like it. I keep seeing more and more people that I don't know."

"Just stick with me until Jess pops back up."

Rory raises an eyebrow, perturbed at his tone of voice. "Are you picturing me naked right now?"

Ted tilts his head to the side. "Excuse me?"

"Sorry. It was, uh… so how did you meet Jess?"

"Bookstore, like two weeks after Jess moved to California."

"Really?" Rory straightens up, intrigued. "You've known him that long?"

"Yeah, I was his first friend here. I introduced him to the guys and, you know, the _girls_." He winks.

She bites her tongue to keep from simultaneously insulting Ted's intelligence and asking about these girls.

"Wait a second. Wait, wait, wait. Rory!"

What is with this guy? "Yeah. That's me."

"Oh, this is funny. Did you date Jess in high school?"

Her eyes widen in surprise. "Did he tell you about that?"

"Nah, he didn't speak much about Connecticut. But listen to this…" He pauses.

She watches him in confusion. "I'm listening," she prompts.

"Okay, so he had this girlfriend while he was here. Honest-to-god girlfriend which is something he didn't seem to be a big fan of. So they're dating, and about a month into the relationship, he calls her the wrong name in bed. Yours."

Rory struggles with the jealousy and shock of this tale. Her name? He had called out for _her_?

"She breaks up with him, he gets really drunk, and the rest is history."

"Wow," Rory manages to get out. "Wow." She takes a long gulp from her beer and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Want more?" Ted offers.

>

She finds Jess tucked away from the party, drinking from a tall, dark bottle.

"Is that beer?" she asks.

He shakes the beverage and smirks. "Coke."

"Good." She grins. "Very good." She giggles and climbs into his lap.

"Are you drunk?"

"The word is tipsy, and I've only had two and a half beers. And that's only because your friend was just _full _of stories about you and wouldn't stop offering."

Jess groans. "Great. Has your opinion of me changed?"

"Not one bit." She kisses his cheek.

"By the way, quick question: you're allowed to drink and I'm not?"

"I'm not the one with a drinking problem!" she exclaims as if this is the most obvious thing in the world.

He touches her chin. "Oh, is that what I have?" She nods. "Well, as long as we have that straightened out."

"Jess, I need to tell you something."

He feels a lurch in his chest as his heart detaches and plunges into his stomach.

"I've been thinking about it all night, and if I don't tell you soon, I'm going to…"

"Burst?" he supplies.

"Yeah." She rests her hands on his shoulders and takes a breath. "I've been trying to figure out what I want to do once I get out of school. Graduation is practically here, and I still don't have a job. People have been telling me to picture myself five years in the future and see what I'm doing, where I am. And every time I do that, I still see you around."

Jess freezes, forgets how to think.

"I see us in this messy little apartment with one point five rooms, but we're really happy. And we've got books everywhere and old Chinese food in the fridge because I still can't cook and you work late." She smiles, grazing his jawline. Her face is bright and hopeful, and it takes him a moment to realize that she really sees this. Behind her blue eyes, their future is playing out.

"And on Christmas, we buy this cheap plastic tree, and I sell my hair and buy you a gold chain for your watch, and you sell your watch and buy me hair combs."

She gazes at him fondly, needing him so badly. She wonders how she'll tell him, if she'll ever get him to understand how much he means to her. "I want that, Jess. I want all of that."

"Even the Ma – "

She giggles and interrupts. "Even the Magi stuff."

He runs a hand through her hair, unsure how to explain that deep down, this is what he's always wanted. Someone else to be there for him all the time; someone to live for. She has been that person for him for so long, but now, she's living for him too.

"Rory?" He feels the words on his tongue, ready to burst from his mouth. He is so overwhelmed that he wants to tell her and more; he wants to promise her the world. "I love you."

She stares down at his shirt, picking at the buttons. He hears her take a deep breath; she's swallowing tears.

"I think the alcohol is getting to you," he says quietly.

"No," she whispers, kissing him softly. "This is all you."

>

"Alright, Jess, don't be a stranger," Jimmy tells him as they walk through the airport. He dodges a distracted businesswoman chatting on her cell phone, stubbing his toe on her luggage in the process.

"And that means you have to call and visit more than once every two years," Sasha translates.

"I will," Jess promises as they pass a group of Japanese tourists bogged down with cameras.

"'Course you will," Ted jumps in, knowingly. "You'll be here so much that it'll feel like you're, you know, living here."

"Uh, Ted, can I talk to you a second?" Jess asks. He touches Rory on the shoulder. "I'll be there in a minute." She nods and follows Jimmy, Sasha, and Lily to security.

"Okay, Jess, so I'm going to call you as soon as the loan comes through, and then you can give your two weeks notice or whatever at that place you work and – "

"I can't," Jess interrupts.

"Can't what? Quit your job? Just don't show up. There. Easy."

"No." Jess sighs. "I mean, I can't be a part of your new company."

"You don't think it'll work? Jess, I swear, this is different from all those other times. This is going to go through."

"I know, I know. I just… I can't, alright?"

Ted frowns, staring hard at his friend. "Is this about Rory? Because, you know, I think I'm in love with her. I want her to bear my children and all that. Wait, you know what?" Ted holds out his hands in surrender. "We shouldn't fight over her. Let's not end a friendship over a girl. No one will have her."

"_Ted_."

Ted lets out an exasperated groan. He's ready to throttle someone, namely Jess. "Look, I'm going to pretend this exchange didn't happen. When the loan comes through, I will call you, and I will set up an office for you and enroll you into community college, and this will work."

"Ted – "

"No. You go grab your girlfriend and join the Mile High Club, and I'll call you."

Jess shakes his head. "I'll see you around."

"Damn right you will," Ted says, watching him go.


	13. Thirteen

**Thirteen**: _Holding on to yourself the best you can_

The ride home from the airport is dominated by silence as both worry over what happens next. Rory fiddles with the broken radio in vain, only succeeding in producing white noise. She wrings her hands in her lap as she stares outside at the gray, overcast skies. Already she misses the California sun.

They pause at a stoplight, and she feels his eyes raking over her. She is too nervous to meet his gaze, but she wants him to touch her, just a simple rub of the arm, graze of the leg. She needs confidence so badly but she cannot muster up any of her own. Her only hope is that he can be brave enough for the both of them.

Jess pulls into Yale and parks in the first row. Rory finally looks over at him and forces a smile. As he stares back, her muscles relax, and her smile becomes less artificial. This is it, she reminds herself. Everything is different now.

"Am I tan?" she asks, eager for the sound of his voice. "Tell me I got some color."

"I think you're only slightly more freckled," he tells her, reaching over. He pushes her hair off her shoulder to get a closer look, and she leans into his hand, purring softly.

He brushes his thumb over her lips. "C'mere," he says.

She grins at the familiarity of the word and meets him in a kiss. The stubble on his chin tickles her skin and she suppresses a happy sigh. When she pulls away, her head is clear and the world is less dizzying.

She knows she can do this.

"Ready to go in?" she asks.

He drums his fingers against the steering wheel, stalling. "Yeah."

"Nothing's changed," she assures him. "I'm going to see him tonight."

"Yeah." It's all he can say.

"I'll need to do some damage control, but I'll come by your apartment tomorrow night. Around six, okay?"

"Sounds good." He touches her arm and tries to ignore the way his hands shake. "Let's go."

>

As Rory searches her pockets for her keys, Jess stands behind her, kissing her neck. He slips a hand beneath her shirt and traces circles across her stomach. She pauses in her actions, falling back into him.

"You're distracting me."

"Am not," he mumbles into her hair.

The sound of footsteps down the nearby staircase breaks the moment, and Rory rips herself away from Jess. She shoves the key in the lock as an older male with a pile full of textbooks passes them. A second later, the door is open.

As soon as they walk in, Paris pounces on them, a scowl fixed firmly on her face. She falters when she spots Jess, Rory's overnight bag slung over his shoulder.

"Jess."

He nods in acknowledgment. "Paris."

Realization dawns as everything falls into place. Paris has always known that some sort of secret liaison has been going on between Rory and Jess, but she played the discreet roommate and never brought it up. Now it is forced in front of her, and there can be no more denial.

"You're back," Paris says.

"Yeah." Rory shifts uncomfortably under Paris's harsh watch.

"Blake stopped by here. Twice. He wanted to know where you were."

"Oh," Rory says softly.

"He asked if I knew where Jess was because he wasn't at work and wasn't answering his phone."

Rory stares at the ground. "Yeah, I went away with Jess."

"Thanks Sherlock, but I already put two and two together." Paris pauses. "And so did Blake." She throws Rory's cell phone toward her; Jess catches it. "Your phone rang seventeen times. I would know, I kept a tally. After the first three calls, I tried to turn it off but it kept ringing. You're phone's either possessed or whoever was calling is _very_ persistent. Next time you decide to disappear and freak everyone out, take your phone."

"I will."

"Good. I'm going to the library, so if you'll excuse me." Without waiting for a reply, Paris grabs her backpack from the floor and all but stomps out the door, slamming it behind her.

"Rory?" Jess asks.

"Mmhmm?" Rory's eyes are still fixed on the spot where Paris just stood, chewing her out.

"You okay?"

"Hm? What?" Rory returns to life and turns, pushing her hair off her face. "Yeah, I'm fine. Come on, I've get messages to listen to." She grabs his hand and Jess lets out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

Rory falls onto her bed and Jess follows suit, grateful for a solid surface to hold him up. He rests his chin on her shoulder as she calls her voicemail.

"Hi, Rory. It's your mother. You know, the woman who gave you life. Your grandmother is pissed. I told her you were out of town, but I didn't know where. Of course, with Jess M.I.A., I have a pretty good idea of where you are. Tell Jimmy Luke says hi." Lorelai sighs and Rory feels the familiar sensation of guilt.

"So your grandmother is calling all of your friends, asking if they know where you wandered off to, and Blake is more psycho than usual, which is pretty amazing since you've been gone less than a day. Call me, _please_, and tell me you are still alive and… Just call."

"She's mad," Rory comments absently.

"No, she's not."

"She's disappointed."

Jess nuzzles her neck. "Rory."

Rory skips over the next four messages – they're all from Blake. She pauses at the fifth when her mother's voice floods back over the line. Both she and Jess notice it instantly, the difference in tone, the words heavy with tears.

"Rory? I'm calling on the off chance that you do have your phone and are simply screening your calls. Your grandfather, he – he had a heart attack. He's in the hospital and…"

Rory springs out of bed and Jess misses the rest of the message. He hurries into a standing position and watches as she clicks off her phone and throws it onto the bed. She does not blink, does not move. He watches her fall away from him, looking like a little girl lost.

"Rory, I am so – " He rubs the back of his neck, at a loss for what to say. "Let me drive you to the hospital."

She shakes her head. "I don't even know if he's at the hospital." She chokes. "He could be home or he could be – oh god," she whispers. She stares at Jess, pleading him to tell her different. "He could already be gone."

"No, no, no." He grabs her hands but she doesn't appear to notice as she stares at her phone. "Call your mom and I will drive you wherever, alright?"

"No. You don't have to do that. I just… this is a family matter. You don't need to worry about it."

And just like that, the entire weekend is undone.

Something within him snaps, a clean break in the cord holding him together. He is surprised when he manages to stay upright. His limbs feel limp and useless, as if he is a puppet without strings, ready to flop to the ground in a heap. Does she see it? he wonders. Does she realize she has taken him apart?

"Do you think you could go? I need to take care of this," she tells him, her voice terribly small.

He nods dumbly and leans forward, wanting – needing – to kiss her goodbye. At the last second, she turns her head and he gets her cheek.

He is out the door, out of the building, back in the parking lot, unable to see anything but violent streaks of red. He rests both hands on the hood of his car as he takes a deep breath – in out in – and tries to calm the racing of his heart.

With an angry yell, he kicks his tires, once twice, before moving to his car door. The dent he leaves is deep and unfulfilling. He peels out of the parking lot at a furious speed and doesn't look back.

>

Rory heads for the receptionist area, and finds a stout woman with harsh blonde hair on the phone. Rory taps her foot impatiently, surreptitiously casing the place for any recognizable faces.

"May I help you?" the receptionist inquires in her best 'I-don't-give-a-shit' voice. Rory glances at the clock on the adjacent wall, wondering if the woman's shift is almost over.

"I need the number of Richard Gilmore's room, please."

A few keystrokes on the computer later, and Rory has her answer. "Thank you," she says, remembering her manners. "Is there anyone else here for him? Maybe visiting him right now?"

"I don't know, ma'am." The woman's lip curls into a sneer. "A _lot_ of people come through that door you just walked in, ask me for information I can't always give them, and then go on their way. There is no possibly way I can remember all of them."

Rory winces. "Right."

She finds the room easily. With a deep breath, she goes inside, hanging close to the door. Her grandfather sleeps peacefully in the hospital bed, a simple respirator aiding him. He looks much better than what she prepared herself for.

"Rory?"

Her head shoots up so fast that it collides with the door. She lets out a small groan and rubs the sore spot as she moves closer to the bed.

"Hi, Grandpa." Deep breaths, she reminds herself, shoving her trembling hands into her coat pocket. "How are you doing?"

"Oh, much better. I've been told I'm going to be just fine, and I _feel_ fine."

"Good." She smiles and blinks quickly. "That's very, very good."

"I've been ordered to take it easy for the next few weeks. Emily says I've been under too much stress and the doctors agree."

"That sounds really good. I think you could use a rest." She reaches over and rests her hand over his. "I'm sorry I wasn't here. I came as soon as I can and – "

"Rory, Rory," he says gently. "It's alright. I understand your need to get away for a few days. Finals are almost here and graduation is just around the corner. You're lucky you didn't end up here in my place with all the stress you're under."

She squeezes her eyes shut, ordering herself not to cry. He has always understood her. She doesn't know what she'd do without him.

"Emily suggested that Blake take over at the office in my absence."

"Blake?" Rory stutters. "But he hasn't even graduated yet…"

"He's going to be my eyes and ears at the office, and represent me in meetings. He may be young, Rory, but he knows this business. His father raised him well."

"Right, of course." Rory stares hard at a spot on the white wall, a building pressure behind her eyes.

"I don't like the boy. I never have. But I can't deny that he will perform well in my place."

"Grandpa, I need to ask you a question." She fidgets in her seat, jiggling her knees, tapping her feet on the floor.

"Anything."

"What do you think is more important: family or your own personal happiness?"

"I should think those two would go hand in hand," he responds.

If only it were that easy, she thinks, feeling hopeless. "Why don't I go find today's newspaper so I can read it to you?" she asks.

"Why that would be wonderful."

She smiles at him again, and kisses his forehead. "I'm glad you're okay."

He pats her hand. "So am I."

The door closes with a quiet click behind her. As she turns the corner down the hall, she comes face to face with Blake. She freezes in her path.

"Blake," she whispers.

"Rory."

She spots a newspaper in his hands and realizes where he is headed.

"I…" She stops. "I don't know what to say." Her throat is sore and her hands are shaking, and she feels as if she has lost all sense of direction. "I – "

"Rory, we don't have to do this now."

She nods and tries to thank him but she chokes instead. The tears flow freely as she moves forward and he gathers her into his arms. He cradles her head against his chest as sobs tear through her body.

"It's okay," he whispers tenderly, rocking her back and forth. "Everything's going to be okay."

>

The next day, Jess sleeps late. A phone call from Jimmy asking if he made it home alright pulls him out of bed at one. The afternoon passes in a quiet haze as Jess sits idly by, waiting for night fall.

Six comes and goes. Once seven rolls around, Jess unplugs his clock with a scowl, as if time is to blame. At eight, he drives to Yale.

Paris answers the door, unhappy that her study session has been interrupted. "Rory's not here," she immediately announces.

"Do you know when she'll be back?"

"I have no idea. She didn't come home last night."

"Do you know where she is?"

"I don't know, Jess. Why don't you try her boyfriend's house?"

She slams the door in his face.


	14. Fourteen

**A/N**: Holy hell! Laura Mariano! I'm _so_ happy to hear from you again. Also, Robin, you managed to quote one of my all time favorite Neruda poems. You're wonderful. Thanks to everyone who reviewed!

**Chapter Fourteen**: _You_ _are so fragile and thin, standing trail for your sins_

He hates her.

He hates the sound of her voice, sweet and naïve and calculating. He hates the way she drapes her legs across his lap as they watch movies together on lazy Saturday nights. He hates her eyes, the lustful shade of blue as he hovers over her and her lips part and she begs him to touch her.

He hates her pretty little lies, when she says that she loves him, that she _needs_ him. None of it means anything.

Two weeks pass without one word from her. No calls or visits; no explanations for why she suddenly decided he wasn't worth it.

He doesn't care though; not one fucking bit. Not even when he winds the phone cord around his fingers, pulling tighter and tighter until his skin is white because it's not her on the other end. It never is.

>

Some inexplicable force knocks the sleep from her and she sits up in bed. Blake stirs beside her, but does not wake. She looks over at him, feeling her mind float away from her body as tiny colored dots explode in front of her eyes. She almost wakes him in a desperate need for an anchor, but she jumps up instead, and locks herself in the bathroom.

The light is harsh and white. She stumbles over to the window and leans out, sucking in the cool May air. She can't breathe. No matter how much air she takes in, she can't breathe.

In desperation, she retrieves the portable phone from the bedroom and climbs into the bathtub. A layer of cold sweat covers her body; her palms are slick against the cold porcelain. She rests her head on the tiled wall behind her as she goes through the past couple of weeks. It is a blur of taking tests and avoiding Paris and hiding from Blake and stuttering through explanations of where she had been.

Blake never asked about Jess even though she is convinced that he knows. He simply accepted her excuse of needing a relaxing weekend away before finals set in. Who would expect something different? She is Richard and Emily's granddaughter, assistant editor of Yale's newspaper, number nine in her class. She has always played the part of the good little girl well.

She knows she should have called him, just as she knows that her decision in California cannot happen. Blake is part of the Gilmore family now, looking out for Richard, charming Emily, and Rory feels as trapped as ever.

Staring down at the phone, she is hit with the uncontrollable urge to speak to him. She dials his number.

"'Lo?" Jess's tired voice crawls over the line.

"Hello?" he repeats, irritation creeping into his tone. She can't speak, doesn't know how. How is she supposed to explain almost three weeks of silence? He won't understand!

"Rory?"

She squeezes her eyes shut and pushes her feet against the opposite wall. The tension within her seeps into the surrounding air, prickling against her skin like electric static. She pushes harder.

"Rory, I know it's you. You learned this from me."

Her foot slips and collides with the cold water handle. She lets out a shriek as the showerhead turns on and she gets soaked. Quickly she dives to the other end and shuts off the water, breathing hard.

"Jess." Her hair is slick against her neck, the phone slippery in her hand. "Jess," she says again. She thinks he's hung up.

"What do you want?" When she does not answer, he asks again: "Rory, what do you want from me?"

"Tomorrow's my graduation."

"Congratulations," he deadpans.

"I want you to come."

"Excuse me?"

She bites her lip and repeats herself. "I want you to come. Please, Jess. It won't be the same if you aren't there."

He lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "Somehow I don't think you'll notice my absence."

"Jess…" She wants to explain to him how she let her grandfather down. He had needed her but she had been too busy lying on the beach, sleeping with Jess, ignoring her role in her family's life. Richard would be so disappointed if he knew where she'd really been.

"I haven't been around in a couple of weeks, Rory, and it doesn't seem to have fazed you."

"I miss you," she tells him quietly.

"Bullshit."

"You don't understand."

"No, I understand just perfectly. Good luck tomorrow, Rory. I hope you have a nice fucking life."

He yanks the phone out of the wall and throws it clear across the room. He doesn't need these midnight calls, her pleading voice. He doesn't need _her_.

>

"Oh, babe." Lorelai covers her mouth as she watches her daughter walk down the stairs, clad in her cap and gown. "Okay, I want you to come down the stairs again, but this time, try not to look like you're marching to your death."

"Funny," Rory deadpans.

Lorelai grabs Rory's hand, a serious expression fixed on her face. "Are you okay? Because this is the day when four years of work finally pays off, and we all worship the ground you walk on." She pauses. "You know, more so than usual. This should be a happy day."

"It is."

"Then where's your smile?"

Rory plasters a cheesy grin on her face. Lorelai rolls her eyes but takes a picture anyway. "We'll label that one as Rory's mood disorder kicking in. For the rest, I'd like some genuine happiness."

Rory shrugs. "I'll try."

"Or you can tell me what's bothering you. I know things for you lately have been… hard. You've been stressed. But you can tell me. Whatever it is."

The house is quiet; it is only the two of them. Lorelai gives her an imploring look and she relents.

"Jess isn't coming today."

"Somehow I didn't think he would."

"I – I was stupid. I called him last night and asked him. I told him I missed him." Rory rubs her forehead, growing hot in her robe.

"Rory, you can still end things with Blake and – "

"Did you know Blake is practically running Grandpa's company right now? His position is sealed there even after Grandpa gets better." She walks past her mother into the living room. "And Grandma adores him. She loves bragging to all of her DAR friends about the two of us, how _beautiful_ the children will be." She spins around. "They have my future planned out for me already. And it's Blake."

"All the more reason to end this _now_."

"I can't. I can't do that to them after all they've done for me. I _owe_ them my future. I wouldn't be here without them and – "

"No!" Lorelai throws her hands up in the air in frustration. "We've been through this! They don't own you, Rory."

"I don't want to let them down."

"You're human! Disappointment is a part of life. You don't have – " Lorelai cuts herself off as realization washes over here. "Oh." She sinks onto couch. "You don't want to do the same thing I did to them."

"This isn't like that," Rory whispers.

"This is exactly like that! Rory, you will never be what I am to them. I promise you. They love you and think you're amazing, but you don't have to be perfect for them. Do you understand?" When there is no reply, Lorelai stands and grabs her daughter's wrist. "Rory, do you understand?"

Lorelai sighs when Rory stays silent. "So that's it? You've signed your life away – property of Emily Gilmore?"

Rory rips her arm away, frowning. "I need to change."

"Fine. I'll meet you in the car."

>

(He's not here.)

She looks out at her family as they stare back: proud, speechless, full of tears.

"Lorelai Leigh Gilmore."

(He isn't here and it hurts.)

She shakes hands, receives her diploma, flips her tassel to the other side. Lorelai and Sookie cheer for her; her grandmother dabs her eyes.

(He isn't here to wink at her as she walks across the stage or to make fun of her graduation robe. He isn't here to kiss her congratulations and tell her how proud he is. And it's her fault.)

She has crossed into her future, but she doesn't find it hopeful or exciting. It is dark. Bleak.

There is no light at the other end.

>

Her head aches and her feet hurt. There is a vague sensation of pain spreading over the rest of her as she smiles too much and Blake kisses her cheek, his arm fixed around her waist.

She wants nothing more than to be back at home in Stars Hollow, curled up in her little girl bed with a good book and her mother to watch over her. But she can't have that today. Probably never again.

"Rory, dear." Emily swoops in and gives her granddaughter a tremendous hug. "Congratulations. Your grandfather and I are so proud of you."

"Thanks, Grandma. And thanks for the party." Rory gestures to the scattered guests – most of who she doesn't recognize. "I appreciate all you've done for me."

"We were happy to." Emily smiles at Blake. "Congratulations are in order for you too." She winks, something rather uncharacteristic of her, before moving on to greet other people.

"Is she acting strange or is it just me?" Rory asks.

"It's just you," Blake assures her.

"I can't remember the last time she hugged me in public. Isn't there some rule against that – proper social conduct? No public displays of affection?"

Blake places a hand on her waist and pulls her to him. "Is there a rule like that?" he asks quietly.

"Blake," she chastises. "There are people watching."

He kisses her softly, ignoring her less than stellar response. "We've been dating for over three years, Rory. I think people would worry more if we _didn't_ kiss in public."

He surveys the room, and when he finds everyone's attention otherwise occupied, he leads her around a corner and backs her into a wall. "You know, this is technically our last chance to act like reckless youth. To everyone else, we are officially considered adults."

"Oh boy."

"Stuffy, boring adults. With responsibilities."

"We already have responsibilities," she points out. "You just graduated, and already you're working for a big business."

"Yeah, I think I finally won your grandfather over." He kisses her neck, grazes her ear with his tongue. "It only took me three and a half years."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," she mumbles. Closing her eyes, she transports herself back to California, the night she told Jess she loved him. She is back in the water, her arms fixed firmly around his neck as he removes her shirt.

Blake kisses her mouth, as his hand explores her thigh beneath her dress. She remembers the way she and Jess stumbled across the beach, their world reduced to a whirlwind of seawater and sand.

In the next room, a loud burst of laughter breaks out and Rory pushes Blake away, harshly reminded of where she is.

"What's wrong?" Blake asks, his words full of concern.

"I don't feel well." She holds her head, furrowing her brow. "I want to go home and lay down."

"But this party is for you. You can't leave."

_Watch me_. "Blake…"

"Come on, one more hour and then I'll take you home." He kisses the hollow of her throat, trailing his lips up her neck. "And you can lie down." His hand travels to the small of her back. "And slip into something more comfortable." His hand dips lower. "And then we can really celebrate."

"Whatever," she sighs, sidestepping him. Without a backwards glance to his hurt expression, she heads back into the party.

>

"I'd like to make a toast to my granddaughter, Rory, who I am immensely proud of. From our first outing to the country club when she was only fifteen, I knew she was something special." Richard beams proudly.

"As I sat in the steam room that day, I listened to the other men complain of their ungrateful and rebellious granddaughters, while I got to brag about mine. Rory has always been someone different, someone that stood out from the rest. She dreamt of Prague and Fez while most other girls dreamt of dates with the Backroad Boys or whatever other odious boy band existed." He pauses as the crowd chuckles.

"Rory, I am very proud of you. You are destined for great things, and I, for one, cannot wait to see what you do once you get out into the world. Congratulations on your achievements."

The crowd claps as Rory hides her face, blinking back tears. She is genuinely touched at the things her grandfather has said. A happy glow settles over her as she runs the words over and over in her mind.

"My turn," Blake announces, taking Richard's place in front of the fireplace. He looks around the room at the assembled guests, all who have a champagne glass, ready to toast in Rory's name. Blake grins.

"Rory and I met in our freshman year, when my parents and her grandparents began to scheme. They set us up and sparks flew." He nods over at Rory. "This girl, excuse me, _woman_ amazes me every day with her intelligence, wit, and beauty." She blushes, returning his smile. "Our graduation is over and we have begun the rest of our lives. And as I think about the future, I know I can't have one without her."

Her smile falters as she watches him closely.

"Rory, could you come up here, please?"

She rises slowly from her seat. Her steps are unsure and hesitant as she walks over to him, passing her grinning grandmother on the way. The crowd holds their breath.

Blake removes a velvet box from his pants' pocket and gets down upon one knee. Taking her hand, he opens the jewelry box, revealing a glittering diamond ring. "Rory, will you marry me?"

Her heart stops. It literally freezes mid-beat as reality crashes in on her, painting a vivid picture of how far she has pushed this. A dizzy kind of nausea seizes her as she stares down at the man she used to love.

"Blake…" She pulls his wrist and he stands. "How can you do this to me?" she asks in a hushed whisper. "In front of all these people! You're putting me on the spot."

"I didn't think this was a difficult question."

She shakes her head, backing away. "I can't do this right now." She rushes out of the room, disappearing down the hall.

>

At least an hour passes as she lies on the leather couch in the library. No one has disturbed her and she's thankful. She needs this solitude so she can clear her mind and think. She has no idea what to do.

Closing her eyes, she imagines a world where she is brave. She calls Jess and begs him to pick her up, and he does. Leaving her heels behind, she climbs out a window and finds him waiting. They drive away together in his junk car where she tells him she's sorry and that she loves him. That nothing else matters but him.

In the real world, she gets off the couch and goes into the hallway, listening hard for voices. The house is quiet and she guesses that everyone has gone home. She wanders toward her grandfather's study, hoping she can talk to him. Maybe she hasn't given him enough credit. Maybe he'll understand.

The door is open a crack and Rory pauses when she hears Blake.

"I don't know what I did wrong."

"Blake, dear, it's alright. This is not the end of the world. She'll come to her senses," Emily explains.

Rory waits for her grandfather to chime in, but he never does. Peeking in, she doesn't see him.

"I'm not sure she's going to," Blake says.

"Of course, she will. Rory loves you but she didn't grow up around a healthy marriage. She's afraid. You have to assure her that you know what you are doing, and will provide for her."

"I thought she already knew that," Blake grumbles.

"Remind her. Worrying over this is ridiculous. She will say yes. Let's concentrate on what happens next… You're taking over Richard's company."

"Are you sure he'll pass it to me once he retires next year?"

"With you married to Rory, how could he not? I hope this will speed things along. I do _not_ want him working anymore. It's just too – Rory."

Blake swivels in his seat to find Rory standing in the doorway, her mouth hanging open.

"What century are we in?" Rory demands. "Because I didn't think arranged marriages were allowed anymore."

"Rory, no. That is _not_ what this is," Blake tells her, standing.

"Grandpa's company? That's what this is all about? Taking over?"

"No, Rory, I swear."

"This is unbelievable." She turns and rushes back down the hall, but Blake catches her before she makes it to the living room.

"Rory," he pleads, trapping her against the wall. "Listen to me. I love you." She shakes her head, staring at anything but him. "I've loved you since our first date when you made me drive to McDonalds because the restaurant I picked out was terrible. I love you and I want to marry you. Your grandfather's company… that's just a bonus. Something convenient, something I may or may not do."

He cups her cheek, begging her. "Rory, I want _you_."

"I can't believe this."

"No, Rory, I told you – "

She cuts him off. "I can't believe that after all this time you still love me. You can't! I'm awful to you. I miss dates, and I don't call, and I'm never ever there."

"We hit a rough patch but we'll get through it – "

"I slept with Jess."

"What?" Rory stares at the ground, but he roughly grips her chin, forcing him to look at her. "What did you say?"

"I've been seeing Jess," she tells him quietly.

He can't breathe. The air is harsh and heavy with something like betrayal, too thick to reach his lungs. "Since when?"

"January."

"You…" he trails off. He doesn't know what to say.

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

He nods dumbly and heads for the door, a hand trailing across the wall so he can find his way.


	15. Fifteen

**A/N**: I am absolutely floored with last chapter's response. I appreciate every single one of my readers and reviewers. Thanks. And to Becka, who I adore so much.

**Chapter Fifteen**: _You are secondhand smoke_

She walks in at half past seven, nervous but exuberant, a walking contradiction of nerves. She pauses at the bottom of the steps that lead to the bar, the strap of her purse twisted in her hands. A fit of desperation seizes her as she watches Jess mix drinks, serving a pair of females. The girls flirt, touch his arm, but his expression doesn't change from its usual stoic quality. Disappointed, the girls depart, and Rory approaches.

"Hi," she says because it's the only thing she can. Their three week separation has only intensified the violence of emotion within her. The butterflies grow wild as they collide in her stomach, their flimsy wings ripping apart.

"What'll you have?"

His tone is strictly professional, and she looks away, uncomfortable with the impersonality. "A shot," she says. "You know what I like."

He nods and turns. She sits on a stool and takes a deep breath, working up the courage to speak. The adrenaline running through her is electric; blue and red sparks of confidence.

"You're the best thing that ever happened to me." It's strange, the relief that comes with saying this out loud. The statement is like an old-age truth that was killing her to keep secret.

"More than Chilton or Yale or the _New York Times_ picking up those articles I wrote."

She doesn't notice the slight hesitation as he pauses, the muscles in his back twitching beneath his shirt.

"More than any plan I've ever made, more than every place I've ever traveled…" She bites her lip as he places the shot in front of her. She doesn't drink, but she doesn't speak either, as she stares up into his unforgiving face, begging him to say something.

"Jess," she tries. God, she tries. "I miss you. More than I could have ever imagined. Do you know how happy you make me?"

He doesn't have a clue. He's pretty sure that whatever emotion she has come to associate him is transient. She shouldn't even be here now.

"I hate it when you're not around. I _hate_ it. All I've wanted for the past couple of weeks is to crawl into your bed and hide because I knew you could make everything better." She reaches across the bar and grazes his face, leaning toward him. "I'm sorry."

His fingers trail across her hand, and she takes this as an invitation to close the space between them. The kiss tastes like sex, intense and intimate and so good. Her lips linger for as long as possible, savoring the familiar sensation of his mouth.

When he pulls away, he thoughtfully tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. She smiles and moves to kiss him once more.

"I never want to see you again."

She jerks away from him, bumping into her stool. Her eyes glaze over with the glassy beginning of tears. "What?" The word is barely a whisper.

"I never want to see you again," he repeats, slower this time.

"Jess." She starts to reach for him but her hand freezes mid-way, clutching empty air.

"I don't need you in my life, Rory. I don't _want_ you in it."

"Jess, I told Blake. I – I told him about us." She grips the bar in desperation.

He gestures to her shot glass, unaffected. "Are you going to drink that?"

"Jess." Her voice cracks and the tears begin to fall. "I told him!"

"Are you at least going to pay for it? Because I can't have my register short at the end of the night."

Her lips quiver as she tries so hard to stay calm. A broken sob escapes her throat as she rips several bills from her purse and throws them at him.

"You forgot your change," he calls after her retreating form. The bells smash against the door as she flies out into the parking lot.

He bends down to pick up the money but finds it difficult; his fingers are heavy and clumsy. He brushes a dollar off his shoulder and watches it fall to the ground with passing interest. In a fit of anger, he downs the shot Rory left behind, slamming the empty glass back into place. The burn is oddly comforting; a reassurance all will be well soon.

But it's false hope; a hollow chest; a carved out heart. He resists the urge to pour himself another drink. He is not going to do this. Not over her.

"You like fucking my girlfriend?"

Jess looks up from the glass and casually studies Blake's disheveled appearance: mussed hair, loose tie, wild eyes. It's rare to see the definition of sophistication so completely undone. "When the mood strikes."

"I saw that kiss. It was sweet. Kind of hot." Blake shrugs as if he is only a casual observer. "Did you ask her to meet up later? Or maybe you're planning another weekend getaway."

"You want a drink? Because we have a strict 'no loitering' policy and I'd absolutely _hate_ to have to ask you to leave."

"Vodka tonic."

"Great. One moment, sir." The last word bubbles over with sarcasm.

After Jess sets the drink down, Blake goes to pick it up, but instead sends it crashing to the floor.

"Clean that up," Blake barks.

A sly smirk appears on Jess's face as he stares the man down. "I'd be happy to," Jess finally says. "You think shit like this bothers me? This is my _job_. I clean up after assholes like you all the time."

"Do you enjoy that? Cleaning up after people?"

"Hey, it puts food on the table." Jess slings a rag over his shoulder, his body loose as if he hasn't a care in the world.

"I'm glad you enjoy it so much because you're right, this is your job. That's how the world works. There are people like me who succeed, who mean something. Then there are people like you; the hired help."

Jess nods, thoroughly entertained. He leans over the bar, closer to Blake. "I know what you're trying to do, and it's not working. You're trying to degrade me, make me feel worthless? Frankly, you're just pissing me off."

"What have you been doing with my girlfriend?"

Jess leans back, aggravated that this is not finished. It seems that Blake is simply going for a new tactic. Fine. "I thought that was fairly obvious from your opening question."

"You think you're funny?" Blake snarls, grabbing a fistful of Jess's shirt. "You think it's okay to put your hands all over what's mine?"

Jess knocks his arm away, his eyes ablaze. "You're just pissed because Rory's not into you for your money, and that's all you have to offer."

"And what do you have to offer? Minimum wage and a prime spot in the trailer park?"

Jess shakes his head, wishing he had poured himself a second shot. The anger is flying through him, an uncaged agitation he is dying to release.

"I think instead of hurtling 'white trash' insults at me, you need to stop and think about why the hell Rory was running to me in the first place. This goes back to what's wrong with you and your relationship. Leave me out of this."

"You think you're special because Rory chose you?" Blake demands through gritted teeth. "What, did she tell you that she loves you? That you're the only one for her?" He pauses, waiting for Jess to confirm or deny. "Did she pull that damsel-in-distress bullshit with you? Did you think you were _saving_ her from me?" he asks with an amused laugh.

"I think you need to leave now."

"God, you're blind," Blake snaps. "She was _slumming_ it with you. She was getting you out of her system before she settled down with me."

"Blake, leave. Now."

"She doesn't love you. She was using you. Crying to you about our latest fight, hiding herself in your apartment… I bet she made you feel _real_ special." Blake casts a sidelong glance around the bar to confirm that they are alone. "Did you fantasize about her?" he asks quietly. "Make up a future between you two? At night, when you were alone, and she was with me, did you pretend she was there, crying on your shoulder?"

Jess steps out from behind the bar and stomps up to him, getting right into his face. "No matter what you say, no matter how you spin it, for the past four months, I was sleeping with Rory and you had no idea. She wouldn't even touch you, Blake. Didn't you ever wonder why? Didn't you ever wonder if she was getting it from somewhere else?"

"Fuck you."

"You either leave by yourself or I will get someone to escort you out."

Jess sees it coming. He notices the twitch of Blake's upper lip, the muscle spasm in his arm. His fist flies toward him, but Jess ducks, feeling the whiz of air as Blake misses. As soon as he pulls back, Jess swings, connecting with the center of his face. He hears the sickening crunch of Blake's nose beneath his hand, and it's the greatest release.

"You son of a bitch," Blake spits out before diving for him. Jess sidesteps him, twists his arm behind his back, and slams his head onto the bar.

Blake slips to the ground with an agonizing groan. He cradles his face as a crowd gathers, a rumble of concern rising among them. Jess opens his mouth to speak but nothing comes out but a tired and defeated sigh. From where he stands, he can plainly see the broken glass, the filmy streaks of red.

Far away, he hears someone call out that an ambulance is on the way.

>

Rory sits on her childhood bed with her knees drawn to her chest, her face buried into the soft material of her graduation dress. Another sob twists itself out of her body and she gives into it, curling into a ball.

It's over. The story ends with cracked ribs, broken bones, and rose red tears from rubbing her eyes too hard. She's left with a rag doll body, and cold dread of what it is to come.

But then she realizes that there's nothing. There's nothing left to come, nothing left to wait for. He is no longer hers no matter how badly she wants him back. She digs her fingernails into the tender skin of her thighs as she relives every moment she has ever shared with him.

A hollow knock echoes throughout the house, but she ignores it. The sound comes again, harder this time, and she drags herself out of her room, not caring what she looks like. She plans to tell whoever this is exactly where they can shove it, but then it's Blake standing on her doorstep, a white bandage covering the left side of his face.

"Oh my god," she gasps. "What happened?"

She leads him to the couch and sits across from him. Reaching out, she traces the edge of the bandage, concern written all over her face.

"Is your eye… is it okay?"

"It'll be fine. A few shards of glass got in, but there's no permanent damage."

"Glass!" She's floored.

"I have seventeen stitches going up the left side of my face. Jess smashed my head into a shot glass, and it's going to leave a scar."

"I'm so sorry," Rory says quietly. "What exactly…" She leaves him to fill in the blanks.

"I was mad. I went to see Jess. Things were said, punches were thrown…"

"Did you – " Rory pauses and swallows despite the dryness of her mouth. "Did you press charges?"

"Why? Would you be pissed if I did? He put me in the hospital, Rory!"

She winces at his tone and immediately, he looks apologetic.

"I didn't," he assures her, his tone surprisingly soft. He grabs her hand and brings it to his lips. "I didn't and I won't if you don't want me to."

The remaining butterflies shudder at the intimacy of his touch. She wishes it wasn't him. She wishes it was never him. "Blake, what are you doing?"

"Are you and Jess done?"

"What?" The room is spinning, a merry-go-round of confusion.

"You and Jess. Are you done? Can you and I finally put this back together?"

"You still want this?" Rory asks in surprise. The resulting emotion is too big for her, too much.

"I want to fix this, Rory. I want to marry you." He kisses her palm, holds it to his cheek. "This is what I want."

"But what about – "

"We can work it all out," he promises. "We both made mistakes, and we both let things fall apart." He produces the ring from his pants' pocket and holds it out to her. "But we can make this work, Rory. I know we can."

She watches as he slides the ring onto her finger. The diamond is heavy and extravagant; it feels like a death sentence.

Blake smiles. "It's a perfect fit."

>

He is numb. He is dull and drained, shades of gray against the backdrop of too many colors. Even the brown wood of his apartment door looks vibrant beneath the dreary pallor of his hand.

The apartment is quiet as usual. He has no one to greet him when he comes home, no one to ask how his day was. Rory used to come over after his late shifts. Sometimes, he found her waiting for him.

There is one new message on the machine. He wonders if it's his boss, calling to remind him once more how much he screwed up and how fired he is. Dejectedly, Jess presses play.

"Hi, Jess? Yeah, it's Ted. Look, the police said I only get one phone call, but I don't know how much time I have." He lowers his voice conspiratorially. "But I'm calling long distance, so fuck them, right? Man, they dragged me in here on 'drunk and disorderly' charges, whatever the hell that means. I wasn't even aware disorder was a crime!"

He sighs. "So. Guess who went to the bank today and got his request for a loan rejected?" He pauses dramatically. "Me! That's right! So I have no purpose in life. Again. My dreams of money and my own company are dashed. Again. And to top it all off, I'm in jail. Again! I hope you and that girlfriend of yours have a nice life full of lots of sex and laughing at my expense."

Another sigh. "Look, don't worry about me. I could use a night in jail. I don't know who said that originally, but whoever it was… I agree with 'em. So, call me. Just, you know, not tonight. Because I'll be doing the jail thing."

A static silence fills the apartment. Jess ignores it and trudges over to the fridge where he pulls out a can of beer. He slumps onto the couch and places the drink on the coffee table in front of him. He stares at the can for a long time before finally opening it. Instead of taking a sip, he buries his face in his hands and succumbs to the desolation he feels.

He has nothing left.


	16. Sixteen

**A/N**: Jesse Lacey so watches Gilmore Girls. ;) Thanks for all the reviews. Once again, I really appreciate the response.

**Chapter Sixteen**: _If it makes you less sad, I will die by your hand_

_She saunters in some time after two, dressed in a designer gown, wearing jewelry worth more than his annual salary. She is the epitome of high society, burnt out after a long night of forced smiling and idle chatter. He is still in his work uniform, his shirt stained with cheap beer. Her manicured nails undo the buttons carefully._

_With his shirt hanging open, she runs a hand along his chest, the knot in her stomach finally beginning to unwind. Unaware of this transformation, he stares down at her, always hesitant to take this further, always giving her a chance to back out. She never does._

_She kisses him tenderly and he drags her to the couch, where he falls against the cushions, her smaller body light on top of his. Snaking a hand into her hair, he picks out the bobby pins, throwing them anywhere, not hearing them land. When she pulls away, her updo is a mess, haphazard ringlets in her eyes, strands loose, curling around her neck. He unzips her dress._

_She is motionless as he removes her necklace, his fingers clumsy against the diamonds in the dark. He wants to take off the earrings too, but then she is lying against the opposite arm of the couch, easing him down with her. He kisses her again, his hands under her dress, tugging off her nude colored stockings. Her shoes are next, buckles and twists and two inch heels; they land with a thud on the ground, bouncing off the coffee table._

_He studies her mussed hair, the smudged lipstick, and she smiles, not understanding. All of this he does on purpose, ripping her socialite status away, and leaving her as any other girl, panting on his living room couch. She is nearly there, almost his equal. But when he leans close, she smells of fine wine and another man's cologne._

_She whispers his name, her voice low and silky. She touches his chin, guiding him back down to her. He gives in, gives up, and kisses her quietly, pretending he is someone else._

It's been five days, and he's thought of nothing but her. He lies across the couch, beer in hand, and thinks about the nights when he came home from work and found Rory waiting for him. She timed her departure from dinner parties so that they coincided with the end of his shift. Sometimes they ran into each other in the hallway of his building. She always looked relieved to see him.

He takes a sip of his beer. It's warm and unsatisfying, but he lacks the energy to retrieve another one. He hears a knock on the door, but ignores it in favor of closing his eyes, willing himself to fall asleep.

The knock comes again and again. Too late, Jess remembers he didn't lock up, and Len strolls in, his arms crossed in irritation.

"Hi there," Len greets, sitting on the coffee table.

"Hey." Jess nods in his general direction.

"What happened?"

"Ah, right to the point."

"Jess," Len says sternly, grabbing the beer from him and placing it on the table. "What happened?"

Jess shrugs. "I got fired."

Len rubs his forehead in annoyance. "Yeah, I'm aware. I want to know why."

"I nearly blinded Rory's boyfriend."

"Well." Len folds his hands, placing them in his lap. "And was this provoked?"

Jess's face darkens. "Oh, no. I just thought it'd be hilarious if I bashed his head against the bar."

"Well, why the hell was he – oh." Len nods in understanding. "He find about you two?"

"Good guess, Sherlock."

"Don't be an ass, Jess. I'm trying to be a friend here."

"You're doing a real bang-up job."

Len buries his face in his hands, suppressing a yell of frustration. "Look, Jess, I'm sorry about your job."

"Thanks for the condolences," Jess mutters.

"But doesn't this mean that the path is cleared for you and Rory to be together?" At Jess's silence, Len realizes the deeper problem, and steps back from the subject. "What are you going to do about a job?"

"Get a new one?" Jess suggests, his tone noncommittal.

"Are you okay for now though? Rent and… everything?"

"I'm fine, Len."

Len purses his lips together, unconvinced. "You could move in with me."

"I don't need to live off your father's money, Len. I'm _fine_."

Len flinches, as he always does when his legacy is mentioned. "If you moved in with me, it would take the pressure off you – "

"I'm fine," Jess snaps, interrupting. He doesn't need a handout. Up until this point, he has managed perfectly well on his own.

Abruptly, Len springs up, suddenly full of life. "Come on. We're going out."

"We are?" Jess asks lazily.

"Yep. There's a party tonight at a friend of mine's and we're going!"

Jess shakes his head, ready to flop on his side. "No thanks."

"I'm not going to let you sit home tonight and drink yourself into a stupor."

"No?"

"No, you're going to come out with me and socially drink yourself into a stupor."

Jess glares up at his friend. He feels himself slowly giving in like so many times before. "Okay," Jess concedes, sitting up. "But we need to make a stop first."

>

Len drops Jess off in front of Rory's house with the promise to pick him up in twenty minutes. As Len peels away, Jess climbs the porch steps, unsure if its courage or fear driving him. Maybe it's both. The door is unlocked and he lets himself in.

Rory's door is open, and he sees her standing in front of her desk, three different jewelry boxes open in front of her. Her black dress is a stark contrast against her pale skin, but she doesn't glow like before. Instead he thinks her ghostly, nearly transparent. He is certain if he waits long enough, she'll fade away.

He approaches from behind, but she doesn't notice, her eyes locked on the array of necklaces. When he puts a hand on her shoulder, she doesn't jump like he expects, but she looks up into the mirror, her face blank when she sees him staring back.

"Hey," he says quietly, still touching her.

"Hi." She studies him for a moment: his unshaven face, the dark circles prominent under his brown eyes. She says nothing but goes back to her jewelry selection, trying so hard not show how nervous she is. She selects something extravagant, something he has taken off her in the past. He expects her to ask for help, but she puts it on herself, stepping away from him to do it.

"Rory."

She turns away from the mirror and something changes, passes between them.

He doesn't know who moves forward first, only that they meet somewhere in the middle. The kiss registers with him in pieces: warmth, pressure, taste. She isn't wearing lipstick. Her hair is up. Her dress is smooth. He wants to remove the necklace and take down her hair; start the deconstruction now, when there is still time.

She leads him over to her bed, and they sit without breaking contact. She grabs a fistful of his shirt, and she pulls him toward her. She's always pulling, he realizes. This is nothing new. These are bad habits, a vicious cycle and that's not what tonight is about. Without a second thought, he bites her bottom lip. Hard.

She rips herself away, a hand over her mouth. "What was that?" she breathes.

"Do you remember when I first pinned you to this bed?" he asks, his knee brushing hers. "You were shaking so hard, you couldn't breathe."

She stands. "I want you to leave."

"What?"

"You're not you tonight," she states. "And I want you to leave."

"What do you mean I'm not me? Of course, I'm me. That was me who just kissed you and that was me who kissed you four years ago."

"I tasted beer," she accuses. "How much did you have to drink tonight?"

"Do you remember how everyone thought I just wanted you for sex? Maybe they were right."

"Stop it," she warns.

"That would make things easier, wouldn't it? Then it would make everything you did okay."

She holds her forehead, and he wonders if she's going to cry. "I know I was more than that. So don't try to say different now." She stands straight, her shoulders back, her head held high. "I know who are you, Jess."

"And who am I?" he demands, jumping up. "Tell me who I am."

"Stop," she says again. "Jess, please just go."

"No, I want to know who I am. I want to know who I have to be to fit."

He tries to keep the desperation out of his tone, but she hears it. She can see it bubbling up within him.

"You can't fit," she tells him softly. "You wouldn't want to. You'd hate it."

He takes a deep breath, certain that he'll turn around now, leave this conversation dangling, never to be finished. But the words rip through his mouth, tearing flesh on their way out. "I don't mean high society, Rory. I mean being with you."

Her features soften and she's someone entirely new. Before now, he didn't notice her hardened appearance, the gray steel in her eyes.

"That's the thing," she says. "You do fit. It's everyone else that doesn't."

This time there is no confusion, no middle. There is only her as she stumbles forward, throwing her arms around his neck. Their foreheads touch for a brief moment before she kisses him, her tongue on his lips, begging for entry. He gives in again and again, his hands on her hips, squeezing.

"Tell me you didn't mean it," she pleads, her mouth on his chin, along his jaw, caressing the skin beneath his ear. "Tell me you didn't mean what you said at the bar." His face is wet, her salty tears slick against his skin, bitter on his tongue.

He is about to tell her he didn't mean a word. He wants to explain that a life without her is only half living, some in-between twilight. He's been in it for weeks now, and he wants out; he wants to curl up with her in that promised New York apartment.

But he can't. He knows he can't. Tonight is about hurting her, showing her that he can forget.

He backs her into her desk and pulls away, keeping an arm on each side. He has her trapped.

"You were using me." He says it like he's testing the statement. He's never said it aloud before.

"What?" She's startled.

"I was backup, something to do when things got bad. This entire time, you were – "

"No," she cuts in. "That's not true."

"Do you know what it was like to have to watch you with Blake all the fucking time? You and Blake, you and Dean…" He shakes his head. "And then there's me."

"When I was with Dean, _you_ pursued _me_. You knew I had a boyfriend, and you just threw yourself into my life."

"You let me," he accuses. "You let me come in. You let me be a part – "

"Stop."

"You've been using me, Rory. You know you have. You've been telling me lie after lie…"

"No!" She grabs his upper arm, shaking her head vehemently. "No!"

"Everything you've told me, everything you promised – "

He is cut off when a pair of hands grabs him and throws him into Rory's bureau. His head cracks against the edge, and he lets out a groan.

"No means no, asshole," Blake growls.

"No, Blake, it wasn't like that," Rory says but he doesn't pay attention.

"We've talked about this, Jess. I warned you to keep your hands off what's mine." He stands only a couple of feet away, his stitches harsh and ugly in the light. Jess resists the urge to lunge forward and rip them out.

"I want you to stay away from my fiancée," Blake warns.

Jess's eyes widen as Rory freezes, her muscles tight, nearly tearing from the tension. Jess sidesteps Blake and grabs her wrist.

"Hey!" Blake shouts.

"You said it was over," Rory whispers, pleading with him. "You told me to go away."

Jess barely listens as he stares down at the ring. The violence of his emotion is so intense, he feels himself snap in two.

Blake grabs him again, but Jess shrugs him off and stalks out of the room. Rory covers her mouth as she tries so hard to keep the tears from falling. She jumps when she hears glass shatter somewhere in the living room followed by the front door slamming shut.

"Crazy asshole," Blake mutters. He reaches out toward Rory, but she hurries past him, into the kitchen. She stops in front of the sink, certain she is about to be sick. Her palms are cold and clammy, and her knees shake, not strong enough to hold her up. She chokes on a scream that never makes it out.

Behind her, she can feel Blake standing in the doorway of her bedroom. She slips off her ring and drops it, watching as it slides across the bottom of the sink. It falls down the drain and she flips the switch for the garbage disposal. She turns and Blake gives her a funny look.

"Where's your ring?" he asks, eyeing her naked finger.

She keeps her voice calm, even. "I lost it."

>

The house is loud and crowded. Music pours out of unseen speakers and into Jess's body, settling in every available inch. As he stands in front of a counter, downing shots of hard liquor with Len, he feels vibrant, _alive_, the beat pulsating in time with his heart.

"Isn't this great?" Len yells over the noise.

Jess can't hear a word. He lifts up his glass and Len happily refills it.

The alcohol is acidic as it slides down his throat, leaving a fiery trail in its wake. Jess thrives on it, welcoming the burn; it keeps him up, limbs moving, lungs pumping. A couple of hours ago, the pain of Rory's upcoming wedding had paralyzed him, rendering him limp and useless in Len's car. The entire ride, he stared out the window, holding his breath for minutes at a time, until he was sure he would pass out. Now, everything is different. He remembers how life can be without her.

"More?" Len yells, shaking the bottle. "You want more?"

"More," Jess says, a fuzzy idea forming in his head. _More_. Yes. All he ever wanted was more.

>

How many dinner parties had she attended over the years? How many auctions, charity events, birthday celebrations? How many meaningless nights spent with her mind already hours ahead to taking off her heels, sliding into bed, sleeping the night off?

Blake escorts her around the room, a hand on her back. Ten years from now, she will be in the exact same position, with the same man, saying the same things to the same people. It terrifies her, this thought, this entrapment. Her future is already decided, a neat package of a summer home in the Hamptons, a penthouse in the city, a mansion in Hartford.

She's never going to work. She's never going to stare at her byline on the front page, watch a playback of her report on television. The only way she'll see Fez and Prague is if she asks her husband for permission, some vacation time; a veiled view from a four star hotel.

And she's so exhausted from this uphill battle that she's ready to surrender. She has accepted what is to come.

"So Rory, how are you this evening?" A tall man asks as he straightens his tie. She thinks she recognizes him as a friend of Blake's, maybe a relative.

"I'm good," she replies through clenched teeth. Blake's grip tightens.

"And how are you, Blake?"

Before Blake can answer, Rory pulls away. "I'm so sorry, but if you'll excuse, I just remembered I have to go slit my wrists."

Blake gapes at her, mortified, as she slinks away, parking herself at an empty table.

"You're really going for that jaded, bitter middle-aged woman look tonight, huh?" Lorelai asks, sitting across from her daughter.

"I don't want to talk," Rory says immediately, wanting to ward off her mother's advice.

"Rory," Lorelai whispers, leaning close. "Don't do this to yourself. If you want me to step in, I will. Okay? I can stop this for you."

"It doesn't matter anymore," Rory tells her, staring down at her hands. "Let Grandma have what she wants."

"Rory…"

"Jess and I are over," she says sadly. "There's no point."

>

Jess, beer in hand, drops next to a pretty girl with black hair, per Len's orders. He takes a swig of his drink as Len plants himself on the arm of the couch.

"Jess, this is Molly," Len introduces, gesturing toward the girl. "Molly, this is Jess."

Before either can say hello, Len plows on. "Now Molly, Jess just went through a really, really messy break-up, so he's a little vulnerable." Jess rolls his eyes, but his friend continues. "He was dating that monstrosity known as half-bitch, half-slut, so you can imagine how bad the fallout was."

Molly nods in mock seriousness, trying to humor Len. "Of course. Terrible, terrible." She pats Jess's knee and sends him a flirtatious smile.

"That's why I thought you and Jess would hit it off. You've both just gotten out of a serious relationship, and you both think the opposite sex is the scum of the earth… Wow, you two just have _so_ much in common."

"Imagine that," Jess mumbles, the words sloshing together as they leave his mouth.

"So I'll leave you two to get to know each other, and I'll be back in a little while. I promise." Len grins before scurrying away.

"He's not coming back, is he?" Molly asks.

"Not a chance in hell," Jess says.

"Good." Molly scoots closer, a hint of something more in her eyes. "He'd just get in the way."

>

Mercifully, she is left alone, with only an occasional man or woman pausing by her table to say hello. She is convinced that she'll survive the night until Blake approaches and requests that they speak in private.

Once they are down the hall, safely away from the party, Blake openly glares at her, his mouth twitching in irritation. "What is wrong with you?"

"Excuse me?"

"That comment you made earlier, and now you're sulking in the corner. You need to get your act together."

She crosses her arms, thoroughly annoyed at this point. "Do not talk to me like I'm five, Blake, I understand."

"I don't think you do. We're engaged now, Rory. Stop acting like the world is ending."

"I'll act however I want," she shoots back. "And if you don't like it, too bad." This strange spark of courage begins to wane as he stares her down. She hopes he'll stalk off soon, so she can go back to sitting by herself.

"Do you want to ruin this?" he demands. "Do you really want to alarm your grandmother? Or do you want your grandfather heading back to work so soon while his health is so up in the air?" Her eyes widen as he presses on. "You're lucky no one found out about Jess, because that would have been a big enough scandal to seriously screw up the Gilmore name, not to mention mine."

When she says nothing, he reaches out, lays a hand on her shoulder. "Look, this is how things are now. So just accept it, alright?"

She nods blankly and doesn't resist when he escorts her back to the party, the trophy wife on his arm.

>

Jess is the one who suggests they go some place quieter to talk. Molly is the one who leads him up the stairs into an empty bedroom. He would admire her audacity but he is too drunk to think of anything but the flimsy sequins of her top, covering the skin underneath.

She pushes him back against the pillows of the bed and kisses him hard. Jess loses his shirt, but doesn't remember the pause, the material sliding over his head, Molly's lustful eyes watching. He is too out of it to care.

They kiss again, his hands lost in the tight curls of her hair. She moves to his neck and he closes his eyes, losing himself in the waves of sensation, the dizziness the alcohol provides. Her fingers trail down his chest as she returns to his lips, her mouth tasting sweet and smoky. She leans back to smile at him and time pauses, shocked out of the room.

Rory sits on his lap, rocking back and forth, waiting for him. Blue eyes and soft curls; so soft that he reaches out, just to feel. The confusion never registers, only a great relief as he gets to his knees, and kisses her madly, pulling at the fabric of her shirt.

Her bra is black and lacy, and he sucks on the skin just above the material, slipping a hand underneath a strap. She lets out an appreciative moan and he pushes her onto her back, his mouth attached to her neck.

He pulls away when he feels a lurch in his stomach, a tumble of cold uncertainty rising in his throat. The image of Rory flickers beneath him, like gray static on a television screen. For a moment, she is blonde and familiar, an image of a ghost.

"Megan?" He doesn't mean to say it out loud, but there it is.

"It's Molly," the girl snaps.

"Oh shit." Jess stands, the ground shaky beneath him, and begins to search for his shirt.

Molly eyes the blue tinge of his skin and frowns. "You look really sick."

He says nothing as he pulls on his shirt and stumbles out the door. Len. He needs to find Len. He needs to lie down and get some sleep; he needs the walls to stop shifting, rising unsteadily on all sides.

Jess reaches the top of the stairs, pausing with his hand on the banister. His vision begins to cloud, polluted by streaks of black. He can only see pieces of the room that waits below, pieces of the people drinking and partying like nothing is wrong. With a groan, he squeezes his eyes shut, the darkness hurtling toward him like an oncoming train.

Seconds later it hits and he feels himself fall.


	17. Seventeen

**Chapter Seventeen**: _You are the smell before rain_

_She sits on the kitchen counter, idly swinging her legs like a restless little girl, as she watches Jess mix her a drink, a variety of unknown ingredients littering the counter. The resulting liquid is amber and unfamiliar, but it doesn't give off noxious gases like those concoctions she sees on TV. She sniffs the drink and frowns._

_"What _is_ this?"_

_"Take a sip. I promise it'll make you feel significantly less sober." When she doesn't move, he asks, "Isn't that what you wanted?"_

_"I asked for something strong, not something poisonous."_

_"Jesus, Rory." He pinches her nose to block the smell and nods toward the drink. "Come on."_

_She bats his hand away and takes a sip. "Oof." Eyes squeezed shut, she sticks out her tongue. He tries to grab it but she ducks, giggling._

_"I think I'm drunk," she mumbles._

_"See? I told you."_

_"You're very good at this." She smiles. "Really, your skill is remarkable."_

_She's__ being bratty and he finds it strangely endearing. He takes a huge gulp from her drink and sets it on the counter beside her._

_"I wish I was more like you," she says quietly._

_His throat burns and it distracts him from the change in her mood. He smirks and begins to play with her skirt. The material looks like tissue paper but it is rough beneath his fingertips; it makes a scrunching sound when he rubs it together._

_"Yeah, you wish you had this skill," he quips._

_"I meant being brave." He looks up at her, surprised. He has no idea what inspired this. When he let her in only a few moments ago, she seemed withdrawn. He was suspicious when she requested he make her a drink, but then that acquiescent instinct took over. He likes to please her._

_"Brave?" He sounds dubious._

_"I wish I wasn't so scared all the time. I wish I could be different."_

_  
His hands travel up her thighs in a comforting rather than sexual manner. He feels almost sorry for her. "I think you're confused," he says. "I'm the one who runs."_

_"You came back. You face things." He shakes his head but she plunges on. "You stand up for…" He thinks she's going to say 'yourself' but then it's just a dangling sentence. He doesn't know if he should fill in the blank. He's not sure of the right word._

_He bends at an awkward angle to kiss the hollow of her throat. She touches the back of his neck, so he kisses her again, just below her pulse._

_"I think I'll just keep on running." She sighs and he feels the release of breath on his cheek. He doesn't care if she keeps running as long as he is there, running too_

His nails dig into her arm as he drags her out of the mansion. He slips a twenty into the valet's palm with the promise of more if he can pull the car around in thirty seconds. As soon as the valet disappears, Blake yanks her forward, so they stand shoulder to shoulder.

"Are you coming home with me tonight?" he asks, his voice tight.

"I promised my mom I'd go back to Stars Hollow."

"Fine." Blake crosses his arms. As the seconds tick by without the appearance of his car, he begins to fidget, digging his heel into the pavement. "Where the hell is it?"

Rory rubs her arms, shivering in the cool breeze. Behind her, the party continues with uproarious laughter as another bottle of wine is uncorked, and fresh glasses are passed around. She aches to be back in there, hidden among people that only know her by her grandparents' net worth. Right now, she wouldn't mind answering asinine questions about her plans for the future. As long as Blake wasn't at her side, she'd be happy anywhere.

"We have to start living together sometime, you know." His haughty tone implies he is so much wiser. He knows these things, and he has to explain it slowly, so she understands.

"I know," she deadpans.

"Marriage _requires_ a couple to live together."

"I know."

"You have to co-exist with one another. Share belongings." He sighs and adds under his breath, "A marriage bed."

"If you have something to say, Blake, then say it."

He stays quiet but she can feel his eyes sweeping over her. Hesitantly, he reaches out and traces the indentations left by his nails. He cups her elbow and gently tugs. She faces him, bracing herself for another verbal assault.

"You look pretty tonight." Her eyes widen. This is not what she expected. "I like this dress on you." He runs a hand down her side, and she shivers again. "Come home with me tonight."

"I can't."

He combs his fingers through her hair, tilting his head to the side. "Come on, we'll go home, put our feet up, watch a movie… anything you want."

She shakes her head in disbelief. First he's dragging her out of the party because he can no longer take her "ridiculous, lackluster attitude", and now he's trying to coax her into a night on the couch.

"Ten seconds ago you were mad at me," she points out.

"I'm sorry." He almost sounds like he means it. "I just – I want this to work."

The car pulls up, its headlights illuminating the nearby garden, but the lush green beauty is lost on the pair.

"Then _stop_ yelling at me." She stalks away, and the valet opens the car door for her, discreetly averting his eyes.

>

As soon as Blake's car disappears down the road, Rory jumps into her own. She has no time to change; she may miss her chance as it is. Sometimes the bar stays open late when there are stragglers. There are a few regulars that Jess likes, and he lets them stay as long as they keep buying. But other times when he is itching for a beer of his own, he kicks them out with a snippy announcement of last call.

Driving with a led foot, she arrives earlier than she hoped. The lights over the bar are still on and her heart begins to race as she slips inside and up the wooden steps.

She falters, not recognizing the man behind the bar. He is tall and black with broad, wooden shoulders that give him an imposing presence. She slouches, feeling nervous and out of her element.

"Sorry miss, but we're closed."

His voice is softer than she would have thought; almost silky. She approaches the stools but keeps her arms fixed to her sides.

"Uh, I thought Jess worked tonight."

"I'm sorry, who?"

"Jess? Jess Mariano," she clarifies. "It's his night to work." She peeks around his shoulder as if expecting Jess to be there, hiding.

"I'm new here. They just hired me. But isn't Jess the one who was fired?"

"Jess was fired?" She frowns and the room seems smaller, the walls too close. "Why…" She bites her lip and the violent snap of anger is so sudden that she nearly loses her balance. When she speaks again, she can barely catch her breath. "Because of what happened with Blake?"

"Blake?" the man repeats.

"Jess hit someone, but he was provoked. I _know_ he was."

"He put a customer in the hospital, miss."

Her hands curl into fists. She wishes he'd stop calling her 'miss'. "But he was provoked! It's not fair. He doesn't have another job. Where's he supposed to work?"

The corner of the bartender's mouth twitches as he listens to this woman he doesn't know, harass him for things he had no part in.

"I want to see your manager."

"Miss, it's almost four in the morning. I'm the only one still here."

"Fine." She looks away, unsure what to do with the residual anger. "I'll be back to see him."

This time his mouth twitches into an amused smile. "And I'll be sure to tell him."

>

It isn't until after she has entered the building, taken the elevator, and reached his door that she realizes that she doesn't have her key. It is back in Stars Hollow, hidden in her jewelry box. She hopes, somehow, that Jess has woken up early – or maybe he never went to sleep.

She knocks twice before Len answers. Surprise is an understatement as his mouth goes slack and his eyes take on saucer form.

"Hi, Len."

"Jess isn't here."

She gives him a wary look. "If he wasn't here, you wouldn't be."

"I'm apartment-sitting."

She blinks. "Apartment-sitting?"

"Look, Rory, this isn't a good time."

"Is – " She takes a quick breath. "Is Jess in there with someone?"

"No, he's sleeping. It's four in the morning, Rory."

"So why are you awake? Slumber party?" She comes off more caustic than she means to.

"Just came back later or something."

She pushes past him into the apartment, irritated with this man she hardly knows. She heads for Jess's bedroom, Len on her heels.

As soon as she sees him, she knows something is wrong. He is curled into himself in the middle of the bed, his face an ashen gray. His skin is paler than usual, zombie-like beneath the hallway light. If Len hadn't been here, if she had found him alone, she would have checked for a pulse, certain he was dead.

She swallows a gasp. "Is that a bruise?" The area beneath his right eye appears violet in the dark with splotches of black to outline the irregular shape. She wants to pretend it's shadows playing tricks, but she can feel the discomfort growing, an anxiety writhing through her.

"What happened?" she whispers.

"Nothing happened. He's sleeping," Len whispers back.

"He… he doesn't look right."

"He's fine."

She kicks off her shoes and tiptoes to the bed. She touches the bruise and Jess's muscles jump beneath her fingers. He groans and rolls over and she gives Len a terrible look.

"What happened?" The whisper is harsh and accusing. Len grabs her elbow and roughly yanks her out the room, and she is manhandled for the third time tonight.

"Let's start with the bruise," Rory says, standing in the kitchen, arms crossed.

"He fell."

"Into someone's fist?" she prompts.

"Down a flight of stairs."

She chokes on the saliva gathered in her mouth. She coughs, covering her mouth with her hand, and tries not to look panicked. "Stairs?" The visual scares her, and quickly she wonders what Jess's body looks like beneath the sheets. She envisions black and blue and broken bones, and she wants to scream.

"Stairs," she repeats. "How? Was he pushed?"

Len sighs and rubs his forehead. He doesn't want to play this guessing game. "He had too much to drink, okay? He passed out in a bad place."

"He had too much too drink?" She shakes her head, and stares Len down like a schoolteacher who has caught the class troublemaker in the act. "You're his friend! You're supposed to be watching him!"

"He's a bartender. He should know when enough is enough."

"No, Len, he's an alcoholic! He has no idea what's enough."

Len throws an arm in the air as if to brush her off. "Stop being so dramatic. He is not an alcoholic."

"I know him better than you do."

"If you really did, if you know him just _so well_ then you would know why he drank tonight. You would have known the moment he left your house where he was headed and what would happen."

"I'm not psychic," she says, her voice small. "I didn't know." She studies the wall behind Len's head, fascinated with the cracked paint. "Did you bring him to the hospital? Was it – was it that bad?"

"Alcohol poisoning," Len mutters. "He had his stomach pumped."

She nods, her tongue pushed against the back of her teeth. She feels explosive. Any second now, a piece of her will shatter and then the rest will follow until she is only a pile of dust on the floor.

"But he'll – he _is_ fine?"

"He's fine, Rory. He just needs some sleep."

She pinches the bridge of her nose, needing to move, to _do_ something. "I'm glad he's okay."

"Me too."

She sets her purse on the counter and then folds her hands in front of her, feeling ridiculously proper. "I'm going to stay here tonight."

"Oh no." Len walks past her to the door. "You're gone."

She spins around, glaring at him. "I wasn't asking permission."

"Rory," he warns.

She flies down the hallway and shuts herself inside Jess's room. Len knocks but when she doesn't answer, he gives up, afraid he'll wake Jess.

She circles his bed, studying him with a scrutinizing eye. He shifts onto his back, and she sits on the edge of the mattress, careful not to disturb him. When he remains still, she lays down beside him, and places a hand on his chest. His heartbeat is steady beneath her palm and it's a thump-thump of reassurance. A sense of relief floods through her as she kisses his chin. Closing her eyes, she immediately falls asleep.

>

The numbers are a blur of red, but he makes out the leading six. He blinks, yawns, and stretches, but clarity refuses to come. His head is hazy, as if stuffed with cotton, and his body aches, like a dull throbbing that is barely there, but enough to remind him of the pain. The shades in the room are pulled shut, so the early sunlight cannot creep in. The dark makes him feel better, more solid. He closes his eyes.

He hears a release of breath and the rustle of sheets. Startled, he looks over to find Rory asleep beside him. Tentatively he reaches out and brushes the hair out of her face. The contact is enthralling; he feels like he hasn't touched her in years. He traces the side of her jaw before brushing against the circles beneath her eyes. He lets out a shaky breath, feeling strangely guilty, but continues his exploration. Her lips fascinate him; they are soft and pink in the dark, like something forbidden, something he should stay clear of. He drags his thumb across them once and then again with more pressure. She stirs, and swats at her face, so he pulls back, watching her quietly.

"Mmm. Jess?" Her voice is thick with sleep and surprise. "Jess!" She sits up quickly. "Do you need something?" she asks. "Do you want something to eat, or a glass of water?"

"No." His mouth is encrusted with a foul taste. It is difficult to get the single word out.

"Are you sure?" She grazes his face, and when he doesn't object, she runs a hand through his hair, massaging his scalp. It is a motherly gesture, and Jess lets out a satisfied sigh, enjoying the attention. "I don't mind."

"I'm fine."

"Can I…" She gestures with her free hand toward the bed. With his eyes closed, he mumbles a 'yes', not caring what he has agreed to. She pulls back the sheet and slips underneath

She rests her feet against his shins. "Is this okay?"

"Yeah."

She waits for an outburst of anger; a sarcastic remark or a finely tuned insult to break her. But he yawns and inches toward her.

"Okay," she whispers, pressing her lips to his forehead. "Good."

>

The next morning, Len wakes up late, some time after eleven. He is greeted with the sight of Rory elbow deep in dirty dishwasher as she rinses a stack of plates and sets them aside to dry. She is still in her party dress, the flimsy black designer gown that gives her a rich, untouchable look.

"What are you doing?"

Rory jumps and drops a plate back into the soapy water, sending a generous splash all over her dress. She appears flustered but not angry.

"The dishes. I wanted to tidy up before Jess woke up."

"He still sleeping?"

"Yeah." She rinses her hands and dries them on a nearby towel. "I checked on him a little while ago."

"Oh." Len leans against the counter, uncomfortable being in the same room as her.

"I was thinking about making him breakfast." She opens the freezer door and begins to rummage through. "There's chocolate chip eggos, but Jess hates those." She frowns. "He bought them for me." She sets them on the counter and continues to look. "He does that a lot, you know."

"Does what?" Len asks out of forced politeness.

"Shop for me," Rory answers, closing the door and turning around. "When he goes grocery shopping, he's always buying me these snacks I like, even if it's something he doesn't eat. He hates chocolate chips. Did you know that?" She opens the cabinets, peeking past old cereal, toward the back. "I made him slice n' bakes once as a joke. They came out pretty good, but Jess refused to eat them. He said he likes oatmeal raisin much better." She looks over her shoulder at Len and shoots him a friendly smile. "Who likes raisins? I hate them."

"Yeah, me too." He watches this girl in confusion as she continues to search for a proper breakfast. He doesn't know what to say. He thinks she's speaking more for her own benefit than his.

"Whenever I come over, there's always something for me to eat. It's like I live here too." She pulls down a box of Cheerios, studies the front, and then replaces it inside the cabinet. "It's nice, you know. Having someone think of you because they want to, not because they have to." She drums her fingers against the counter, pausing in her search. Her expression is wistful. Len assumes she's lost in a certain memory; he wonders if it's a happy one.

"Should he even be eating?" she suddenly asks.

"I don't know. He can decide when he gets up."

She nods. "Okay. I guess I'll just finish the dishes."

"Oh, Rory." He reaches out to grab her wrist but freezes before he can make contact. She gives him a funny look – furrowed brow, pursed lips. "You don't have to do that."

"It's fine."

"I mean – you don't have to stay."

"Yes, I do." She reconsiders her statement. "I _want_ to."

"Well, I don't want you here."

"Excuse me?" She narrows her eyes, wondering why he thinks he can make this decision.

"I want you gone before Jess wakes up."

"You can't make me leave. This is Jess's apartment."

"And I'm acting on Jess's best interest."

Vehemently she shakes her head. "You're not. He would want to see me. I came over to talk to him."

"Look, Rory, I don't know you very well, but I do know that I don't like you. To be candid, I think you're a selfish bitch."

She takes a step back as if wounded. She opens her mouth, ready to defend herself but Len cuts her off.

"I don't want to hear about how cornered you are or about the obligations you have. I don't need that poor little rich girl bullshit."

"You go to Yale," Rory accuses. "You're worth more than I am."

"I don't flaunt it. I don't come over to see Jess wearing thousand dollar outfits and jewelry worth more than this apartment."

She fingers her necklace, suddenly self-conscious. "I don't _flaunt_ it. This isn't about my clothes."

"No, this is about how you fucked Jess over."

She takes another step back – and another. "You don't know anything about our situation." Her voice cracks and she looks away, ashamed.

"I know that you're engaged to a guy that is going to give you everything. And I know that Jess nearly killed himself last night over you. And I know that he's out of a job, and I know – "

"Stop it," she warns. "I don't want to hear this."

"Of course you don't. You prefer it when people pat your head and tell you what a good little girl you are. Not a fan of guilt, Rory?"

She sweeps past him and disappears into Jess's bedroom. Len reaches the door just as it shuts in his face. He sighs and goes back into the kitchen. Moments later, Rory reappears with her shoes on and purse in hand. She says nothing as she stalks through the living room and out the door.

>

"You okay?"

"I'm fine," Jess replies, lying across the sofa. He yawns and turns on his side, ready to go back to sleep.

"You sure?"

"Don't hover," Jess warns. "I'm _fine_."

"I believe that's exactly what you said last night before we headed out," Len remarks.

"Huh. What a coincidence."

Len rolls his eyes and sits on the arm of the couch. He grabs the remote control and begins to flip through the channels.

"Did, uh, did Rory come over?"

Len falters, nearly dropping the remote. Jess doesn't notice. "Rory?" Len scoffs. "Uh, no. Why?"

"I thought…" Jess pauses, picturing the twilight image of Rory lying beside him, running her hands through his hair. She had been so gentle and sweet, eager to help him out. He tries to remember a glint of silver, the flicker of her engagement ring. "Never mind," he mumbles. "I don't know what I was thinking."

"You gotta lay off the drinking, man," Len says lightly, immediately regretting his words.

"I would want to know," Jess begins, "if she came over."

Len hesitates, thinking of the night before, when he found Jess crumpled at the bottom of the stairs, his skin so pale, so blue, it looked as if he had drowned.

"She didn't."

Jess nods, afraid to speak lest the disappointment creep into his voice. It wasn't her last night sitting in his lap, and it wasn't her lying beside him in bed. It was wishful thinking, the embodiment of too much alcohol and burnt out hope.


	18. Eighteen

**A/N**: To avoid confusion, this is **not** the last chapter.

**Chapter Eighteen**: _Every picture you paint I will paint myself out_

He's watching her again. She can feel the strain of his gaze as he stares at the icy slope of her shoulder. The center of her back itches as if she expects his touch at any second, gentle – or maybe rough – something definitive to make her turn and speak. She waits but he stays on his side of the bed, edging on that invisible line without crossing it.

"Rory?"

She jumps at the sound of his voice as it cracks the frigid silence. She doesn't want to talk; she is too busy imagining the rest of her life. It is easy to picture the future of unsaid words and separate bedrooms as this one moment stretches in front of her, and he hovers without touching.

"Are you crying?" he asks.

"No." There are no tears, but she trembles slightly as dry sobs run through her, crackling just beneath the surface.

"Rory," he says again. He grazes her shoulder and then grasps it. His hand is warm against her cold skin. She rolls onto her back and stares up at him.

He leans over her, resting his left hand on her other side. She feels trapped, but this is no different from any other second she has been with him, so she does not resist. He kisses her lightly, and pulls away to gauge her reaction. Over the past couple of weeks, she has done her best to adapt the classic Roman personality. Stoicism, she thinks, may be the only way to survive.

He kisses her once more with added pressure. When his tongue presses against her closed lips, she turns her head, fidgeting beneath him. He sighs and lies back down beside her.

"What's the matter?"

She wonders if these questions – she gets them a lot – are genuine. She doesn't understand how he could be so oblivious to what she feels. She thinks maybe he asks to humor her, or maybe he wants her to confide. Darkly, she thinks maybe they have run out of things to say.

"I'm tired."

"This week will be better," he says with that obnoxious omniscient tone. "Just a few more days until the house is ready and then the week after, we move in." He touches her hand, relieved when she doesn't pull away. "Are you excited?"

"It's my first house," she says, noncommittal.

He nods enthusiastically, accepting her words as a statement of pure adrenaline. "You'll like it better when we have a house," he insists, "and are out of this apartment."

She rolls her eyes. He acts as if his apartment is a step down from poverty, and that a house will change their lives, saving both of them from the drudgery of normalcy. She thinks: Jess's apartment is smaller than this.

(But that doesn't matter because she hasn't heard from him in two weeks and sometimes, when she thinks about it, her lungs hurt.)

"I think I have something that will cheer you up," Blake announces.

"Oh?"

"I was going to wait until the engagement party but this is as good a time as any." He pulls a velvet box from his nightstand table and her hearts flutters.

He pops open the box and grins. "Do you want me to ask again?"

"No," she says. "Twice is enough."

He slides the ring onto her finger. It is smaller than the last – a thin silver band encrusted with several tiny diamonds. For a fleeting second, she thinks that he knows her. Finally!

"I know it's smaller," he says with an apologetic tone. "But it's more expensive than the last." He points out the tiny diamonds, tapping them with his pointer finger. "See? It's better."

"Oh." She nods and she wonders why she bothered to get excited. "Thank god. I'd hate to have a subpar ring."

He is familiar enough to pick up on the sarcasm, but too refined to comment. "On Friday, when we announce the engagement, you'll have a ring to show off and a brand new house to look forward to," he explains. "You can make all the girls jealous."

"I can't wait," she replies tonelessly.

"God, Rory. Please, _please_ stop acting like this."

"Like what?"

He pounds the mattress with his fist and ever so slightly, she curls into herself.

"We're getting married."

"We can't keep having this discussion, Blake. We've exhausted the topic."

He turns to her and grabs her chin, but he does so gently, checking his temper. "You said yes. This has been set in motion. Just because we haven't made the formal announcement doesn't mean that it's a secret."

"I know," she whispers.

"Your grandmother alone probably phoned every member of her DAR group the night I got that ring on your finger."

She flinches. Proposing is supposed to be romantic and beautiful, but he speaks of it as something formal, like a business deal.

"Blake, I'm tired."

"We're in the middle of a conversation."

"I don't want to talk anymore." She yawns. "I want to sleep, okay?" She hates the way she sounds, as if she's asking permission.

"Fine."

She turns onto her side and closes her eyes. Seconds later, his lips are on her neck, his hand traveling across her shoulder.

"I said I was tired," she snaps.

He retracts his hands with furious velocity. "Fuck, Rory, I'm just saying goodnight!" He shakes his head, thoroughly pissed off. "Are you thinking about him?" he asks.

"What?" She flips onto her back once more. There is no way she heard him correctly.

"Tell me what you see in him," he demands. "I want to know why it was him."

She contorts her mouth in a twist of disbelief. "Excuse me?"

"Tell me why it was… _Jess_."

"Don't do that," she warns. "I hate it when you do that."

"Do what?" he huffs.

"You say his name like he's beneath you." Blake scoffs but she presses on, figuring if he really wants to know then fine, she'll tell him. "When you look at Jess, you see this person that isn't worth your time because he doesn't have money or a proper education. You see every flaw and amplify them until he isn't even a person, but some piece of trash."

She takes a shaky breath. "When I look at him, I see… everything." She doesn't know how else to describe it. She sees the reasons for smiling, the reasons for laughing, the reasons for being happy and for once, not wondering and hoping and craving something better.

"This thing with Jess," Blake begins in a low voice. "It wasn't just a fling, was it?" When Rory says nothing, Blake sits up. "I'm sleeping on the couch."

"Don't bother." She grabs her pillow and gets up, heading for the living room.

>

It's strange, the silence that comes with severed ties without the expectation that they can be mended, and differences can be put aside. Rory's absence from his life happened with the finality of broken glass as he smashed a coffee mug on the way out her door. Her appearances after that were fabricated and now that he is trying to keep away from alcohol, there is no way to bring her back outside of his dreams.

He lays the last page of the newspaper out on the kitchen floor, and steps back to inspect his work. Every square inch of the floor is covered by the Wanted ads from different newspapers. Over the past four days, he has picked up every copy he could get his hands on, and now that he has a finished product – a potential job everywhere he turns – he doesn't know what to do.

He walks across his kitchen, stepping lightly so he doesn't kick up any of these opportunities. Eyes turned to the ground, he finds plenty of things he can do. There is a cleaning service in Trumbull that has been very successful – they have clients all over New Haven County. The hours are flexible – days and nights, all depending on the client. This is something he could do easily. He can vacuum, mop, and dust. Cleaning isn't hard, it's only time-consuming and slightly humbling, but it's _something_.

Office buildings are looking for secretaries – Jess can type – and assistants – he can make coffee – and unimportant people to work in the mailroom – he can sort too. There are a hundred and one restaurants hiring, and despite his screw-up at the bar, he is fairly sure that his boss would be kind enough to be discreet.

All of these choices, and not one is desirable. These are all odd jobs, designed for people in-between jobs, or for teenagers killing time until college comes and their lives really begin. For Jess, this is the rest of his life, and whatever he's looking for – he's still not sure what – cannot be found in black and white pages full of people searching for something themselves.

With a sigh, he kicks up the newspapers until it's a flutter of ads, and he has ink all over his hands and nothing to show after four days of hoping.

>

Rory sits on her mother's bed with just enough force to pop Lorelai out of sleep. Lorelai flies into an upright position, blinking madly, until she focuses on her daughter.

"Rory?"

"I got a new ring." She holds out her left hand and wiggles her fingers. "See?"

"Oh." Lorelai leans back into her pillows and pats the space next to her. Rory flops down beside her mother. "It's very pretty."

"Thanks. I thought so too." She rests her head on her mother's shoulder and it feels good, _familiar_ in a way only her mother is. Lorelai smells good too, like flowers and something earthly – Rory has always thought it was a motherly scent, always there and always like home.

"Your party's tomorrow night," Lorelai muses. "You'll be the belle of the ball."

"I don't know what to wear."

"Don't worry about that. I intercepted the monstrosity your grandmother wanted to put you in and I made it pretty."

"Thanks." Rory's voice is soft and truly gracious. For the first time in weeks, she feels… nice. Content, even.

"And I'm going to make you look beautiful," Lorelai says. "Well, more beautiful than you already are."

Rory laughs and it doesn't feel so forced.

"They'll take a picture, you know. Run it in the paper with the formal announcement."

"I know."

"It doesn't make it permanent though," Lorelai says. "You can't believe everything you read in the paper."

Rory laughs again and kisses her mother on the cheek. "I know."

"Good." Lorelai smiles. "As long as you know."

>

Jess wonders what it'd be like to be homeless. He imagines it with a distant point of view – like this is for fun, not a real possibility. He knows that if it ever came to that he had Len or even Luke to give him a place to live. It's not as if losing his job is the end of the world. It's just a bump, something to throw him off course. Eventually, he'll be fine.

On the street though, it'd be hard. He pictures himself as the New York City kind of homeless – the kind with class. He would grow a beard and hold a sign, and he'd stop scowling so much. He'd practice looking sad and desolate, which would be easy really – he simply had to project what he felt into the expressions he made. He'd hang out in alleys and sleep in museums, which he thought would be rather novel. Maybe he'd do it just for fun.

He likes his apartment though. As he scrubs the dishes from his last three meals, he doesn't mind because they're his dishes, and it's his sink, and this floor he's standing on – it's his too. He pays for everything he has, and no insult or punch can take that away.

As he dries his plates, his phone rings and immediately he thinks that that will be the first to go.

"Yeah?"

"Jess! You prick, you never called me back."

"Hi Ted." Jess rolls his eyes, and flips the dishrag onto his shoulder. "I'm sorry that I didn't want to discuss the failure of your latest idea."

"Yeah, yeah, I know, really depressing. But I have news."

"Joining the circus?" Jess asks. "Opening a zoo? I think an amusement park would be more of a money hole, myself."

"Shut up before I hang up. You're going to want to hear this."

Jess leans back against the counter. "Fine. I'm all ears."

"Are you sitting down?"

"No." Jess sighs, wanting this conversation over with.

"Sit down."

Jess waits a total of two seconds before saying, "Okay, I'm sitting."

"You're not but I'll tell you anyway." Ted pauses – for dramatic effect – and asks, "Do you remember that rich guy I told you about? The one who wanted to invest in the publishing company?"

"Vaguely."

"Well, he was pissed when it fell through. Then he disappeared for a little while, to gallivant around Europe, getting foreign girls pregnant, paying them off… you know, the usual rich guy shit."

"Yeah." Jess is losing patience, and fast.

"He got back yesterday, called me up and said: 'hey, I want to fund your company'."

Jess doesn't speak. He can't. Even his breathing is irregular, as if the wind has been knocked out of him. "You're kidding."

"Hell no. This guy, he has like this family legacy fortune type of thing. I think he's ticked off at his parents and wants to piss his money away just to drive them crazy. But who the hell cares as long as he's pissing his money away on us?"

"Yeah." It's the only thing he can think to say.

"Look, Jess, I know you have a job up there and a really hot girlfriend, but, you know, I'd really love for you to be a part of this."

"Okay." He doesn't even have to think about it. Agreeing has never been this easy.

"Okay? You fucking serious? What about that little brunette?"

"It's fine," Jess promises. "She'll be fine with it."

"Your job?"

"Consider me unemployed," Jess says, skimming the truth. He'd rather just abandon everything here without Ted knowing why. He can start fresh in California. He doesn't have to be stuck in-between.

"Yes! This is going to be great, Jess. I've got a place lined up – I already put a bid in. And summer's just about here – so, you know, summer classes for you."

"When do you want me there?" God, he's excited. He can't believe it. He can't remember the last time he felt this level of enthusiasm.

"I don't know, uh, yesterday? I want you down here as soon as freaking possible."

"I'll have to drive down there, but I'll need a couple of days to get everything in order," Jess says. "Just give me two days."

"Perfect. I'll see soon."

>

Jess finds it the following afternoon in the middle of packing. His clothes have already been shoved into boxes, and his books are tucked away. He's leaving the furniture behind, the dishes too and all the appliances. He doesn't need it. He'll be moving in with Ted, and eventually, he'll have his own place and everything will be shiny and new.

On the surface of his bureau are his brush, gel, wallet, keys, and change. He has a picture frame in the corner too; it used to hold a picture of him and Rory. Months ago, Rory had brought it over as a gift, and he smiled behind her back as she positioned it. It's empty now though. He forgets where the picture is.

He picks up the frame, considering throwing it away, when he sees a piece of paper slip from where it was stuck to the mirror, held there by the frame, to his bureau. Curious, he picks it up.

_I love you as certain dark things are loved,  
secretly, between the shadow and the soul._

_And__ I'm so sorry for doing it._

He crumples the piece of paper, letting it fall to the floor. He guesses that Rory stuck it in the upper corner of his mirror, hoping he'd see it, but it fell before he could. His hands curl into fists and he thinks and thinks and thinks but nothing makes senses, and it's not a surprise, because nothing with her ever does.

He thinks back to the days when he wouldn't question a gesture such as this. Back in high school, she was the kind of girl to quote poetry because she had no other way of getting her point across. During those days, her innocence was real and her naivety was genuine, and when she smiled, it wasn't calculating or manipulative. He could take every word, every gesture, every kiss at face value, never wondering if there was something else there, some other reason, an ulterior motive.

And he misses that. He misses the days when he was going to ruin her, not the other way around.

He is leaving. Bags have been packed, arrangements have been made, and –

"Shit."

>

The dinner is good. There are four different courses, but Rory only remembers a sort of beef – it had tasted spicy – and even that memory is vague. She is aware of the wine, though. She hasn't put her glass down since the waiter handed it to her two hours ago. Since then, there has always been someone hovering near her elbow, ready to refill at a moment's notice.

"Come dance with me," Blake requests, coming up from behind. He rests his chin on her shoulder. "We'll be making the announcement soon, but I want to dance before it's official."

"I'm busy."

"Doing what?" he demands. "You've been standing over here by yourself for the past fifteen minutes."

"It's tiring," she says, "watching everyone else have fun."

"One dance, come on." He kisses her jaw and swings around in front of her, grabbing her free hand.

"Fine," she relents. "Let me put my drink down."

"I'll get the band to play something good."

Rory heads over to her table – it's long and rectangular, the kind brides and grooms request at their reception. The entire night feels like one giant bout of déjà vu, and she wonders if it's possible for something to feel familiar before it has happened for the second time.

She drains the rest of her wine and sets the glass down. She is about to head for the dance floor when she hears the soft sound of her cell phone ringing from the inside of her jacket. She answers without checking the caller ID.

"Hello?"

"I need to talk to you."

"Jess?" Her heart jumps but the movement hurts, as if her body cannot stand this type of exuberance.

"I'm outside," Jess says. "In the gazebo out front."

"I'm coming out right now," she says, forgetting about Blake's promised dance. "Just wait. I'll be right there."

She drops her phone onto the table and hurries out of the room toward the bar. There are several man gathered there, drinking and smoking. None of them pays attention to her, so she exits through the side door.

She hurries as fast as she can, and he hears her coming, the click-click of her heels. She climbs up the gazebo steps and there he is, as promised. Her stomach tingles as if she is seeing him for the very first time.

"Hi." She hears the word in her head, but has no idea if she actually says it.

"I went to your house, and when you weren't there, I went to Luke's, but it was closed. I found out from Kirk where you were."

"Oh." She nods dumbly. "Yeah, Luke's inside with my mom. Big party." She looks like she's going to say more, but she rushes forward instead, wrapping her arms around his neck. As soon as contact is made, she breathes out, and it's easy, so easy.

"I'm glad you're here," she mumbles against his neck. "I've missed you, but you didn't call, so I didn't think I could."

He knew this was a mistake. But in the end, after enough thought, he realized he had to say goodbye. He had to end this properly, unlike the last time when they sat side by side on the bus, and he lied to her face. This way, when he leaves, he cannot be blamed for their split, written off as some thief who stole away in the middle of the night. He is here, and he will be truthful. He _will_ say goodbye.

"Rory, I need to tell you something."

She pulls away but stays close. "Okay." She doesn't get it yet. She's too mixed up to pick up on what he feels, the vibes he's giving off.

"I'm going to California."

She falters. "For the weekend?"

"For good."

It never felt like this before, not when he kissed for the last time at the bar and told her it was over, not when she caught him with Megan or when he backed her into her bureau and tried to make her feel small. The closest she can think of is when she stood over his pale form in bed, and the idea of losing him blossomed from something unthinkable into a reality. It is possible that one morning, she can wake up and he will be gone.

She can't accept this. After so many years of depending on him, he has become synonymous with permanency. She pictures her life as one bright, vivid scene, but in the middle is a hole, huge and jarring, too distracting too allow for normalcy. Without Yale, he is the only thing that brings her happiness, the only thing that _fits_. She wants to tell him, but she doesn't know how to explain. There are no words, no proper clean cut phrase for him to understand that he is the one that smoothes the edges, giving her life an underlying flow – something natural and reliable. Something to fall back on.

Even now, standing on solid ground, she feels her balance slipping, the world at an angry tilt.

A hole, she thinks. A missing movie frame. The death of the protagonist in her favorite story. Holding her breath for one second too long. He grasps her hands loosely – one tug and they're not touching – and she wonders if she's turning blue.

"No." One single word. "No!" She shakes her head and she creeps closer and closer to hysterics. "Why? Why would you be leaving?"

"Look, Ted – do you remember Ted?"

She hates the way he's speaking to her, slowly and clearly as if she is a child.

"He offered me a job, Rory. A really good one."

"I know you need a job. I went to the bar, I talked to your manager, but they have a policy and he can't give you your job back, but I can find you another one." She tugs on his wrist, trying to make him listen. "I can get you a job. Anywhere you want. Did your super kick you out? Because I can find you an apartment," she promises. "A nice one."

He knows he can say yes, and she'll do everything she says. But he doesn't want charity. He doesn't want to give in once more, just because it's easier.

"You can't do that for me, Rory." She tries to break in that she can, yes, of course, she can, but he continues. "This job is big. I really want to do this."

"You can't!" She hugs him again, fistfuls of his shirt caught in her hand. "I'm selfish, okay? I'm selfish and I'm terrible, but you can't leave."

"Rory…" He wants her to let go, but he can't seem to push her away. He hugs her back.

"I love you. You don't believe me, but I do. And do you know how hard it is to say that and actually mean it?" she asks, her voice desperate. "To say it, and not wonder if it's for the wrong reasons, if you're mistaken, if what you feel isn't quite love yet. But I know," she says. "When I say it, I _know_."

He deflates in her arms, hiding his face in her hair. He squeezes her sides and she keeps him there, standing and solid and real. It's tempting to give in, to just let her hold him for once, let her assure him that staying is okay, that she will take care of him instead of the other way around.

"I can't stay here." He feels the change as he says it, the violent surge within her.

"I'll break up with him," she says, pulling away to look him in the eye. "Right now. I'll do it. I'll do anything you want."

He shakes his head because she can't – she _won't_ – and it's too late for grand gestures. "Rory…" He sighs. "You look really nice tonight." His hand slips from her elbow to her hand, and he shakes it, surprising her. "Congratulations on your engagement."

"No." He pulls away and turns around and she says it again. "No, Jess. Please don't do this." He walks down the gazebo steps and he hears her again, crying and begging. "Jess, please."

He follows the path out into the parking lot where he gets into his car. He sits there for several minutes but she doesn't come and he doesn't go back, and finally he puts the car into drive and he's gone.


	19. Nineteen

**A/N**: Carmen Elena Mitchell is a real writer. Check out her short story _Black Cowboy _in the short story collection Pieces. Also, this is not the last chapter.

**Chapter Nineteen**: _If it makes you less sad, I'll move outta this state_

California is slow, mellow, and unhurried. For once, Jess has opportunities spanning in all directions, overlapping and tumbling in front of him, so there is no need to rush. Ted is ecstatic when Jess moves in, but he is easygoing, keeping his enthusiasm to a contained level. Henry, their financier, is eager but calm, insisting that the trio take their time. He is a thin man, tall but slight, with a baby face and a knowing smile. His money is obvious, worn on his Armani sleeves, but he makes himself scarce, so Jess never gets the chance to hate him.

A week and a half after Jess arrives, the bid is accepted, and suddenly he, Ted, and Henry are the owners of a rundown office building located in downtown Torrance. Advertised as a fixer-upper with untapped potential, it is more of a money pit; four stories of broken windows and cracked ceilings and a shaky foundation. But Henry and Ted are all smiles, with supplies and cash and the unwavering confidence that this will work. Jess decides to trust them because there is nothing else he can do.

He finds a job at a small, intimate café, located halfway between Ted's apartment – his temporary residence – and his future waiting in a vacant lot. Days and nights, he alternates between serving coffee and painting stained walls. In his head, he maps out floor plans – offices, conference rooms, lounges. He pictures the design: warm oak paneling; deep, lush couches; and leather reclining chairs, so he can pop his head out the door and tell his secretary to please hold his calls, he's having an important meeting.

It takes three months of hard work before the building is ready. It is sparsely furnished but it has a neat appearance, simple and impersonal. Ted plans to add decorations as time goes on, hang posters and stock bookshelves with literary works chosen by Jess. "We'll make this into an office yet," Ted insists. "Before you know it, you'll love it so much, you'll never want to go home!"

Advertisements are run, flyers are put up. Business cards are made and passed out in bookstores, coffee shops, and libraries. Contacts are made thanks to Henry's influence and soon, they have their first client.

Her name is Carmen Elena Mitchell. She is young and pretty with honey brown hair, and an overly ambitious smile. She is a jittery youth; Ted assumes she's flighty. But she is on time for her first meeting and she jumps right in, shaking first Jess's hand and then Ted's.

"I've been turned down four times," she explains with a nervous fidget. She shuffles her feet impatiently and ruffles the papers in her lap. "I've rewritten this novel so many times, I'm not sure I can do it again. At least, not by myself. It's _ready_ for editing. It's _ready_ for print."

Jess sits in the corner of the office with a notepad in his hands. He's supposed to be taking notes for business purposes, but instead he's jotting down details of the girl's appearance: blue eyes, full lips, high cheekbones. If they used her picture for the back cover, it wouldn't matter how well she wrote.

Ted grins. "Writer's intuition?" he asks. "Only you would know when it was ready. You are the writer and the writer _knows_."

Jess rolls his eyes at his friend's attempt to connect. He's going to have to teach Ted some new phrases that don't sound so hopelessly artificial.

"Exactly!" Carmen smiles, relieved to finally be understood. "I don't want money," she says. "Or fame. I don't even want to be a household name. I just want to share my thoughts with the world."

Jess mentally checks out, deciding that Ted has this under control. He flips to the back of his notepad where he has a short story by Carmen; one he pulled up after a Google search and a quick stop at the local bookstore.

He rereads it for the fifth time but stops when he reaches the passage that makes him think of things past, things lost. (_Remnants of home, and a big princess bed.__ From the days when I reigned. Before the crown fell.)_ He looks up at Ted who speaks with a grin, as Carmen nods; her blood, sweat, and tears in manuscript form held close to her chest. Jess swallows and makes another note: _naïve._

Carmen stands and shakes Ted's hand. She smiles at Jess and takes a business card; she'll be returning at the end of the week.

"Writer's intuition?" Jess asks once Carmen is gone.

"Yeah, and?"

"You're such an idiot."

>

Somewhere in between working at the café and fixing up the office, Jess reluctantly begins night class, armed with a notebook, folder, and pen. He has no idea what to expect when he arrives at the classroom, and is undecided about whether or not to exert any effort. He disappears into the back row of the room with the stubborn resolve to speak to no one.

The class is small and made up of an eclectic group. A couple of Latino girls sit up front, chattering in Spanish before the teacher arrives. A pregnant woman in her mid-thirties – introduced as "CallmePattyandyesIamexpecting!" – sits two seats across from Jess. She talks the most and volunteers all the answers whenever one is needed. Jess thinks she is too perky for a woman in her second trimester, but he plays the part of the silent observer and never says a word.

Most of the students are female, although a few males are scattered around the room, strategically placed near the younger and prettier members of the class. Jess ignores them even though the oldest man – twenty-nine with a receding hairline – has repeatedly asked if Jess wants to join him and his friends for drinks after class. Jess has already decided that if he is going to survive this, his best bet is to lay low, trust no one, and do the damn assignments.

In the third week of class, a girl sits between him and CallMePatty. She brushes her dark hair over her shoulder and shoots him a smile. Her teeth are straight and startlingly white; he thinks she'd make a good Colgate model.

"I'm Charisma." She offers her hand. "Yes, Charisma. Yes, the word, and yes, it is spelt the same way."

"Bad introduction experiences?" he asks.

"Too many to count."

"You look a little bit like her," Jess says. "Charisma Carpenter."

Her eyes flash. "I think that's the best use of my name so far."

"Maybe this is the end of all those bad experiences."

She shrugs, and her curls bounce across her back. Jess watches the movement, wondering what it would be like to twist a ringlet around his finger.

"Maybe." She winks.

His eyes slide to her outline several times during class. Once, he catches her looking back.

>

Clients end up at their office as a last resort. Only after every possible publishing company in the continental United States (and certain provinces in Canada) have turned them down, do they even consider enlisting Ted and Jess's help.

In their first two months of business, they meet a Goth poet with a penchant for rhyming couplets and penning sonnets about his dead lover, a male novelist with good ideas but poor grammar, and an essayist with anarchy in her blood. Ted is rarely critical of ideas – he thinks any business is _good_ business – but Jess is strict in fixing style, format and spelling errors. He takes editing seriously, and spends hours poring over manuscripts and scribbled poems on paper napkins, handed in by the Goth.

Jess cannot help but put everything into his work, because for the first time, he feels as if what he is doing matters. Suddenly, he understands words like _ambition_ and _potential_ and _success_. He feels the definitions crawling inside him, a new and vibrant part of him.

Henry is seen more in writing than in person; the building is in his name, so all official documents – including periodic checks made out to Ted – sport his signature. Jess is grateful for the money Henry provides, but it grates on him. He never says it aloud, not when he's discussing ideas with Ted, treating Charisma to coffee, or meeting with clients. He tries to stay silent and act thankful, but it's hard.

After concentrating so much of his energy on hating Blake and his money and the socialite scene, it drives him crazy that the only reason he is here now, living some sort of American dream is because of a rich boy who has nothing better to do with his trust fund. Day after day, he goes over it in his head, wondering if this reworked definition of independence was worth leaving her behind.

>

"I'd like to book a flight to California." Rory tugs on the phone cord, as she surveys the three hundred invitations spread out in front of her. The cards are small and white, with pink lilies stenciled along the edges. The calligraphy is neat and precise, announcing the impending nuptials of Lorelai Leigh Gilmore and Blake Michael Landon.

"Um, I don't care where it lands. Somewhere around Venice, I suppose." Rory tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. She covers the receiver and calls out to the maid, "Anita, can you bring me a cup of coffee, please?"

"Date?" Rory stares hard at the stack of envelopes. She's not sure she knows three hundred people. "Anytime. Soon." She pauses, listening. "No, not this week. Next?"

The maid brings in a small blue cup balanced atop a matching saucer. She places it on an empty surface and stirs the drink. She curtsies when she is done; young and bashful, the girl is too eager to please and often gauche in front of guests. She has a bad habit of calling Rory 'madam'.

"Next Tuesday?" It sounds perfect. She imagines arriving at night, as the sun sets on California. She will walk along the beach, the same one he took her past when she accompanied him months ago. She'll watch the sky turn dark and the stars come out before she goes to his apartment.

She imagines him with paint smudged hands and tired eyes, laying on the couch when she knocks. He is slow answering the door; sitting up and stretching, an exhausted groan escaping his lips before he hobbles across the floor after such a long day.

He is surprised to see her. He is reluctant and angry; he tries to send her away. Then the moment passes and he pulls her inside, his hand cupping her elbow, his other arm around her waist. She pictures bare walls and hardwood floors, gouged and dirty with dusty furniture rounding out his existence. He kisses her forehead, her cheek, hides his face in her hair, and the six-month separation peels away like a layer of old skin; it is discarded and forgotten, and she kisses him back.

"Um, Mrs. Landon?"

"Miss Gilmore," Rory corrects the maid as she runs a finger along an invitation. The ink stays strong, resisting smudge; Blake's name sings clearly from the front.

"Yes, Miss Gilmore, I'm sorry, but would you like help?"

"Help?" Rory's expression is blank; she drops the card and the maid rushes to pick it up.

"With the invitations, ma'am. Would you like help stuffing the envelopes?"

"Oh." Rory rubs her forehead, feeling displaced. She looks over at the phone, remembering the call from moments ago; the patient voice of the travel agent; the line wearing thin from wishful thinking. This is the seventh flight reservation she has made in the past six months. The tickets are never ordered with the expectation of use; she always lets them sit at the airport, unclaimed and untouched. But there is a small piece of comfort that comes with pretending. It's something to think about when she lays in bed at night; it's something to sleep to.

"No, Anita. I can do it."

>

It comes the first week of December. It is a surprise to see a small white envelope personally addressed to him. He moved into his new apartment only a couple of weeks ago, and so far, the mail has been a long line of bills and letters meant for previous occupants.

There is no return address. There is no obvious sign to warn him of what is inside, so when he opens it and reads the neat, precise script, it is a shock to his system; a rush of blood to his head.

He trips over a stack of boxes in a rush to the counter. He rips a pen from his workbag and marks the appropriate box. Stuffing the invitation into the preaddressed envelope, he runs the four blocks to the post office.

Not until that night when all traces of her are gone does his breathing return to normal. He ransacks the refrigerator, desperately rooting through its shelves before remembering that he no longer buys alcohol. He considers climbing into bed, but he knows only hours of staring at his ceiling and torturing himself waits there.

He calls his friend in a desperate attempt. All he can think of is the flowery cursive; the black ink; his name neatly written out on the envelope. He wants the image gone; the date burned out of his mind.

Ted answers on the fourth ring. "Hey," Jess greets. "When was the last time you and I got really fucking drunk?"

>

Rory throws the door open and stalks inside. She throws the ripped envelope onto his desk.

"How could you do this?" she demands.

"Rory, I'm in the middle of something," Blake answers tonelessly as he makes notes in his day planner.

She takes a book off his desk and hurtles it toward the opposite wall. It leaves a small dent; a white scrape against a blue wall.

"Hey!" Blake jumps up. He comes out from behind his desk, staring incredulously at his fiancée. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

As soon as he's close enough, she slaps him as hard as she can. "Why would you do that? Why?" She raises her hand again, but he grabs her wrist, wrenching it back to her side.

"Don't you dare hit me again," he warns. He drops her arm and she stumbles back, her skin discolored from his grip. "I've never raised a hand to you, so don't you dare start."

She takes a quick breath, letting her anger speak for her. "You sent him an invitation."

"What are you talking about?" Blake runs a tired hand through his hair as if he has no time her games. He turns around, returning to his chair.

"He's gone. Do you understand that?" Rory asks in a calm, measured tone. "He's _gone_. So don't try to make him miserable."

"Rory, I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Stop!" She rubs her wrist where he grabbed her, trying to ignore how light-headed she has become. "You sent Jess an invitation. I know it was you," she accuses. "I looked at that list three times. I mailed all of them! He wasn't in there. You did it yourself."

Blake opens a manila folder and makes a note. Without looking up, he says, "We have dinner with your grandparents tonight. I hope you'll have calmed down by then."

"Leave him alone," she warns. "I mean it."

>

"Jess?" She sounds impossibly far away. "Don't hang up."

He closes his eyes, trying to picture her sitting at home, but he no longer knows where home is. Only a half hour ago, he was at work, and she was a million miles away.

"You don't have to say anything. I just… I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry. Blake, he – he has your name and address in a file in his desk. He's keeping tabs on you. I guess he's scared you'll come back."

She covers her face, hot tears forming puddles in her palm. "He sent you that invitation. I just wanted you to know it wasn't me. I'm sorry." The words sound hollow to him, but he thinks she means it; he knows she's trying.

"Really, Jess. I'm sorry for that. For everything. This is the last you'll hear from me, I promise. I'll leave you alone."

"Rory…" Her name is an intake of breath. She thinks of his mouth, remembering how it used to feel against the hollow of her throat, the inside of her thigh.

She hangs up.

>

She has a panic attack the morning of her wedding as she tries to put on her gown. Standing in the middle of the dressing room in a flimsy slip, she takes deep breaths as her mother holds a cold cloth to her head and her grandmother flutters around nervously.

"Rory, are you sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine, Grandma," she croaks. She clears her throat, speaks again. "It's just nerves."

"Rory, are you sure? We can't have you passing out halfway down the aisle."

"Mom, she's _fine_," Lorelai stresses. "She's tired. Planning this wedding was a lot of work."

"Thanks," Rory whispers to her mother. Lorelai smiles and smoothers back Rory's hair, gingerly touching the curls that fall across her back.

"You look beautiful, babe."

"Thanks," Rory repeats. She closes her eyes, and waits for her heart to slow and the nausea to subside.

Lorelai removes the cloth and squeezes her daughter's shoulder. "Want to try the dress again?"

Rory nods, hiding her trembling hands behind her back. "Sure."

>

The church is draped in spring colors to contrast the dark winter day. Flowers are crammed in every available space; hanging from beams, curled around pews, littering the aisle. The scent is overwhelming.

Rory stands amongst her bridesmaids waiting for the music and the forward march. Time seems impossibly precious, slipping quickly through her fingers. The last six months have passed in a blink of an eye, and she mourns the time lost, the wasted minutes of doing nothing to save herself. This day has always seemed so far away and suddenly, it is here.

The doors open and one by one the bridesmaids begin their walk. She catches a glimpse of Blake up front, looking modestly handsome in his tuxedo. She tries to alleviate her nerves by thinking of their last night together, when he kissed her sweetly and promised her the world. She tries to tell herself that everything is all right; this is not the end.

"Are you sure, Rory?" Lorelai whispers. "I can still sneak you out the back."

"I'm sure, Mom. Go ahead."

"Good luck, kid." Lorelai disappears into the church, the doors shutting behind her.

"Wow," a voice exhales. "You look expensive."

Rory turns and there he is. She thinks she has passed out and this is a dream.

"You're not here," she says.

Jess walks over, adjusting his tie. "I like your hair," he says quietly. "Is it longer?" He reaches out under the pretense of touching it, but he traces her collarbone instead, catching the soft material of her dress.

"Why are you here?" When he doesn't answer, she grabs his hand. "Jess, you weren't supposed to come."

"I wanted to see it happen. After today, I don't have to wonder anymore, do I?" He had no intention of coming, but after her phone call and her desperate apology, he decided he had to see her. One last time.

His hand is warm and familiar, and she tightens her grip. She looks thoughtful as she kisses his cheek through the light gauze of her veil. "Will you give me away?"

It is his turn to look startled. "What?"

"I couldn't choose someone. I was just going to go down myself. But now that you're here…"

The wedding march begins, muffled by the wooden doors. The pews creak as three hundred guests stand up, craning their necks for a glimpse.

"Please," she says. "It'll be over soon."

The doors open. Jess holds out his arm, and she takes it, leaning into him. She whispers a thank you, but he says nothing back. He doesn't tell her he loves her, he doesn't describe how much he has missed her over the past several months. He doesn't think of how much this will hurt afterwards when she is gone; when she is reduced to nothing more than a skipped heartbeat, a missed breath.

When they reach the end, Jess lifts her veil. He kisses the corner of her mouth in a brief moment of intimacy, his hand resting lightly on her elbow. He holds her gaze as he replaces the veil.

After Jess sits, the priest begins, and Blake grabs her hand, his nails biting her palm.

>

"Do you Blake take Lorelai Gilmore to be your lawfully wedded wife; and do you solemnly promise before God and these witnesses to love, cherish, honor and protect her: to forsake all others for her sake; to cleave unto her, and her only, until death shall part you?"

"I do."

"And do you Lorelai take Blake Landon…"

"Did you know that I'm love with him?" Rory whispers as the priest speaks. "I never said it out loud. I wasn't sure if you knew."

"Rory, don't do this," Blake warns in a low voice. "Don't you dare."

"…until death shall part you?"

She pauses and the silence fills the church. She doesn't turn to look at Jess, nor does she glance up at Blake. She bites her tongue, trying to remember the right words.

"Rory," Blake snaps, nudging her. "_Rory_."

She remembers Sookie's wedding a hundred years ago. It seems so silly and innocent now; the way she ran so fast from him, terrified at her first major mistake. She knows that if she could have a chance to go back, to change one moment with him, it would be that one. She would have stayed.

"I do."

When the priest pronounces them man and wife, she doesn't cry and she doesn't close her eyes and she doesn't kiss back.


	20. Twenty

**Chapter Twenty**: _I'm__ only hoping as time goes you can forget_

The acrid scent of smoke is subtle at first, filling the bathroom like a gas leak. She rolls the cigarette between her fingers, ignoring the ash that falls onto her silk nightgown. After it burns down to her fingers, she lights another, and stretches out her legs, resting them atop the edge of the bathtub. Propping an elbow on the toilet tank, she waits for the smoke to grow thicker. She won't stop until the room is shrouded with the gray fog and her skin is rank with the smell.

She puts the cigarette out in the sink, leaving a violent black streak against the white porcelain of French perfection. She does not feel guilty. She picks up the matches, fumbling with the small package she bought at the first hyper-marché she passed when she arrived three days ago. The flame burns orange and bright; the cigarette glows when she lights it. This time, she fits the cigarette between her lips, testing the taste with a quick flick of her tongue. She inhales carefully and chokes, coughing up smoke. When she is calm, she inhales again. And again.

Outside of the bathroom, someone enters the hotel room. The intruder calls her name and she jumps up, throwing the cigarette into the toilet. She throws the pack into the bathtub and thrusts the curtain closed. Before she can do another thing, Blake opens the door.

"So you are in here."

"You could have knocked," Rory says.

Frowning, Blake looks her up and down. "You're not dressed."

She touches her clothes self-consciously. Her nightgown is wrinkled and one size too big; it hangs off her at an angle. "No."

"I wanted to take you to dinner tonight."

"I'll take a shower now. I'll be ready in no time."

Without waiting for a response, Rory turns the shower on. She goes to close the door, but Blake remains in its entrance, looking thoughtful.

"I need to get in."

"Then get in," he replies.

She slips off her nightgown, revealing a pair of panties and nothing else. Blake smiles appreciatively and holds out his hand. She takes it, allowing herself to be reeled in. He drags his fingers through her hair and down her back. He kisses her forehead, and she closes her eyes, listening to the shower beat against the pack of cigarettes.

"Why was he there?" Blake asks. She tries to pull away but his hands tighten on her hips. "I deserve to know, Rory. You're lucky I waited until now to ask."

"He just wanted to see it," she whispers.

"Bullshit."

She pushes his chest, and he lets her go. Frustrated, she snaps up her nightgown and puts it back on. "I want to stay in tonight," she says, turning off the shower.

"Rory, we're going to talk about this. He humiliated me in front of my friends and family – "

She whips around. "What are you talking about?"

"He walked you down the aisle. You were clinging to his arm so tightly I thought I'd have to pry you off."

"We were friends before you ever came into the picture." She pushes past him into the bedroom. "He was doing me a favor, walking me down."

"He kissed you in front of the entire church!" Blake shouts, slamming the bathroom door shut.

"It's customary."

"Are you out of your – "

She cuts him off, speaking over him. "Are you forgetting that you're the one who invited him?"

"Oh, this is great. It's my fault now."

She throws her arms up into the air, at a loss. "You sent him the invitation! The only reason he even knew the date of the wedding is because you told him!" She jabs a finger in his direction, narrowing her eyes. "He was out of our lives for six months, and you brought him back in. Don't you _dare_ take this out on me."

"He was gone?" Blake demands. "Gone for good? Out of the picture?" He slams his fist into the bureau, knocking over the lone champagne glass from the night before, when he drank alone. It hits the carpet with a soft thud, rolling unbroken into the wall. "He's never gone, Rory! He never will be!"

"Not if you keep bringing him back."

"Reserve any plane tickets recently?" he shouts, coming toward her.

Her eyes widen. "Were you spying on me?"

"You ordered a plane ticket every month he was gone!"

"You were keeping tabs on my credit cards?" She throws open her suitcase, not waiting for confirmation. She pulls out the first pair of pants she can find. "I need to get out of here."

"No, wait." He grabs her elbow but she pushes him away.

"Leave me alone."

He encircles her waist, leaning his chin on her shoulder. "Please calm down."

She hangs her head, staring at the assortment of clothes she has bought with Blake's money. Expensive blouses, designer dresses; buried beneath hundred dollar jeans, diamond studded earrings lay, waiting to be worn.

"We'll never move past him if you never let it go," she warns. "He's gone. Let him stay gone."

He kisses her neck, brushing his nose against her hair. "Rory," he hums, "you were smoking."

She slams the suitcase shut, her limbs strangely heavy. She almost falls into bed from the downward motion.

"It's a disgusting habit," he advises. "Don't start now."

She licks her lips, saying nothing. She can still taste the cigarette, smell the smoke. It's the faintest pang of guilt.

"I want to get past this, Rory, okay? This is our honeymoon. I want to take you to Le Jules Verne tonight, and after, I want you and I to visit the very top of the Eiffel tower." He sighs, disappointed at her silence. "And tomorrow, I want to go wherever you want."

He leaves her side to grab a manila envelope he discarded when he first came in. Dumping it on the bed, dozens of booklets fall out, each advertising a different country, a different attraction.

"Pick one," he says simply. She stares at him, unmoving. "Rory, take a look."

England. Australia. Ireland. Spain. Egypt. It's a pile of forgotten dreams of foreign lands and daring reports; she touches the pamphlets, thinking of a cameraman, a microphone, and fear. Exhilaration.

"I don't understand."

"I have reservations everywhere," he explains. "All you have to do is pick the place."

She digs in deeper: Italy. Greece. Japan. India. Russia. Sweden.

"I can't – " She covers her mouth, and swallows back something unidentifiable. She doesn't know where to start.

Blake looks over at her, his gaze smoldering. "He never would have been able to give you this."

>

Jess rubs his eyes and stifles a yawn. He has been sitting in front of the computer screen for hours, determined to complete the editing job. Every time he thinks he's done, he remembers a particular scene that could be cut down, a scene that could be better, a scene he didn't proofread enough. Thanks to his new perfectionist attitude, he'll never finish.

"Um, Jess, it's like, ten-thirty," Ted announces from the doorway.

"I'm aware," Jess replies, not looking up.

"Yeah, but it's ten-thirty at _night_. I left hours ago."

"I'm almost done."

"Whatever, I'm not complaining." Ted plops into the chair across from Jess's desk. "I'm just a little worried, you know, about your mental health."

"I'm fine."

"Oh." Ted nods. "Well, okay then. Good." He watches his friend type for a few minutes, the tap-tap of keys the only sound. "So, hey, Jess."

"Mm?"

"I was wondering when you were planning on paying me back for that trip to Connecticut you just, you know, had to take. It's been a couple of weeks and my rent is due… well, it was due last Tuesday."

Jess freezes, his fingers stiffly resting on home row. "Soon."

"Jess…"

"I promise. I've cut back on the hours at the café, and I need to pay rent and for class… we're not exactly bringing in a lot of money here, Ted." He pauses. "Or any money, for that matter."

"That'll all change soon. I promise."

"Sure." Even though he is broke, and the company has been in the red since the building's purchase, Jess doesn't care. He likes the work he does now, the hours he spends immersed in reading, the smudges of red ink left over on his fingers. He wouldn't trade this for any amount of money; he likes to think he wouldn't trade this for a girl either.

"So what was that trip for?" Ted asks. "You practically ran out of here after I lent you my credit card."

"It was nothing," Jess replies, shutting down his computer. His vision has begun to blur; it's time to call it a night.

"Right. The last minute trip to Connecticut where that little brunette lives was nothing. Okay."

"Ted, don't start," Jess warns. "I don't want to get into it."

"You're not thinking of moving back, are you?" Ted asks, suddenly panicked. "That little seductress. I should have known."

Jess sighs, leaning back in his chair. "No, I'm not going back." Not now, not ever.

"Then what? It did have something to do with her, right?"

"I went to see her get married, alright?" Jess stands and gathers a pile of papers. He grabs his workbag from where it rests on the floor.

"Get married?" Ted pauses, thinking this over. "How long has she been dating the guy?"

"Forever," Jess states. He slings his bag over his shoulder. "Four years, I guess."

"Four years." Ted's mouth goes slack as he ponders this new development. "So you and she…"

"I don't want to get into this. I'll pay you back soon, okay?"

"Yeah." Ted shrugs, brushing it off. "Take your time."

>

Life after the honeymoon is stagnant. Rory isn't sure what she imagined would happen when she came home and Blake returned to the office, but she hoped for more than this.

Emily shoots her a look from across the room, her fingers fluttering near the napkin in her lap. Rory picks up the cloth napkin monogrammed with the Landon name, and places it in her lap, smoothing out the creases.

This is the fourth luncheon she has hosted in her home, inviting Emily and the DAR group to partake in gossip over tea. Rory is the youngest in the room by far, but an accepted member of the group. Emily's friends love to fawn over her, asking her questions about her marriage with Blake and if children are expected anytime soon.

(The answer is always no.)

Rory supposes she likes these days best when she has something to fill up her time. In the morning she watches over the cook and maid, making sure the meal is properly prepared and the house is kept tidy. The afternoon passes with mindless chatter and expensive tea, and in the evening, Emily usually stays for dinner, saving Rory from a silent meal with her husband.

Other days, however, are eternal stretches of time, with morning and afternoon blending in a sunless haze. Rory sleeps later and later now, only getting out of bed when she can no longer stand lying still, watching time slip by.

"So Rory, you've been married three full months now," Heather Denton gushes. She leans over, covering Rory's hand with her own. Her perfume is floral and too strong. "How is married life treating you?"

"It's fine," Rory answers tersely, politely extracting her hand.

"That's it, just fine?" Heather winks at Rory like a teenage girl and laughs. "I'm sure it's more than fine. I've seen your husband. He's quite the looker."

The rest of the women laugh. Rory doesn't blush.

"Oh really, Heather," Emily chastises. "Could you be any more crude?"

"Probably." Heather grins devilishly. Her graying hair is dyed platinum blonde and her lips are painted a deep red. Her attempt to look younger is laughable. No one in the group can stand her classless tendencies and unabashed vulgarity, yet she is always present, always invited. Rory has yet to grasp the politics of the rich.

"Rory, are you home?"

Each head swivels in unison toward the entrance of the living room. Blake appears seconds later, briefcase in hand.

"There you are." He grins broadly and the women gaze at home fondly, happy for the young lovebirds.

Rory stands and greets her husband with a chaste kiss on the cheek.

"I was hoping to take you to lunch," he says quietly, so only Rory can hear.

"I have guests."

"Then I suppose I'll have to join you." He sidesteps his wife and sits on the couch. Rory drops down beside him, returning the napkin to its proper place.

"You two look so perfect together," Jennifer Hutton says. "You remind me of my husband and me when we first married."

Blake takes the compliment in stride. "Thank you."

"Your wedding was so beautiful, I don't think I ever got the chance to tell you that," Linda Fowl speaks up. "The church and the flowers, and my goodness, Rory, _your dress_."

"Thank you," Rory echoes her husband hollowly.

"I can only hope my daughter finds such a great catch," Linda continues. "Rory, you're so lucky to have found a man like Blake."

Emily clasps her hands together. "He's wonderful. Isn't he wonderful?"

Rory forces a smile. "Wonderful, Grandma."

>

Rory winces at the sound of shattering glass. She watches Blake pace in front of her, stopping only to kick a piece of furniture or smash another expensive decoration.

"You've been lying to me." She says nothing in defense. She knows that if she waits, he will eventually yell out all of his anger. When he is calm, he will kiss her, apologize, and have a maid clean up his mess. These ridiculous fights have spanned their entire relationship; she's used to this.

"I want children, Rory. We agreed we would start trying."

"No," Rory correctly quietly, feeling the need to jump in. "You _decided_."

"I can't believe you're still on birth control!" he shouts. "Here I am thinking that soon enough, we'll have a baby on the way, and you're preventing it!"

"I don't want kids yet!" Rory yells back. "Did you hear what I said? You decided for us!"

Blake holds his head in his hands, breathing heavily. "Have you been talking to him?" he demands. "The maid said you spend all morning and part of the afternoon in bed. Do you call him?"

Rory deflates into a nearby chair, suddenly exhausted. "I haven't spoken to him since the wedding. You know that. I just – " She sighs, tears filling her eyes. "I can't keep having these fights with you."

"Are you crying?" he asks softly. "Don't cry. I'm sorry."

"You're sorry," she says blankly. "I'm sorry. We're always so sorry."

"He's breaking us up, Rory." Blake's voice is full of malice. Somehow, every fight they have, every problem they experience is traced back to Jess. And he's sick of it. "All over again."

"Could you go, please?" she requests, staring at the carpet. "I want to be alone."

>

Jess taps his fingers against his desk. Anxiety and exhilaration run through him, and he cannot sit still. He uncorks the bottle of champagne and pours three glasses. He looks in the hall, but there is no one there. He drinks alone, waiting.

Finally, Ted arrives, a half-hour after the arranged time.

"Where have you been?" Jess asks good-naturedly. Right now, everything about Jess is easy and happy; his muscles are relaxed and his mouth is free to form a smile. He takes another sip of champagne, offering his friend an untouched glass. "And where's Carmen? I want to get her drunk."

"Carmen's not coming."

"Why not? The celebration's for her. She's got her book coming out. She should be in here, drinking from the bottle."

"She's not coming back. Her book isn't getting published. We're never going to make any money."

Jess almost drops his half-empty glass. He places it on his desk, next to the keyboard. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm sorry, Jess. I don't know what happened."

The doorway is suddenly filled with the imposing presence of an unrecognizable man. He makes a note on the clipboard in his hands before looking up at Ted and Jess.

"You have until five today to clean out the building," he explains in a bored voice as if he has no time for this. "If you do not vacate the building by five, you will be trespassing and you will be arrested. Do you understand?"

"No, I don't," Jess speaks up. "What the hell is going on?"

"Henry sold the building," Ted mumbles.

"What?" The ground begins to shake but Jess is the only one who notices. "When? We never talked about…"

"Henry sold it for twice the price he paid. He asked me how he could have passed up an offer like that."

"Simple, he could have said no. This is our fucking company!"

The man in the door clears his throat. "It may be your company but this is building isn't yours. Blake Landon has acquired this building legally, and he demands it be demolished immediately."

Jess grips the edge of the desk, squeezing until his palm is red with the indentation and the promise of blood.

"It was a gift for himself," the man continues, "to commemorate six months of marriage to his beautiful wife."

>

Rory excuses herself to use the ladies' room, where she locks the door and leans her head against the cool glass of the mirror. She is tired tonight, dizzy from the flutes of champagne she has drowned herself in and the strong cologne Blake wears. She fingercombs her hair and reapplies lipstick, scrutinizing her appearance until she is sure she is presentable.

She slips out of the door quietly, hoping not to make waves. She hates being noticed by Blake's friends or her grandmother's friends; there is an assortment of people who know her, but she cannot remember their names.

Her cell phone rings, and she answers it, despite it going against proper etiquette. She lingers by the wall, where she can see her guests mingle and laugh and drink. She is thankful for the distraction.

"Hello?"

"Is this Rory?" an unfamiliar voice asks.

"Who is this?"

"Listen to me, you stupid bitch, I want you to thank your husband for me. Jess and I really appreciate being thrown out of our work."

The voice and a face click inside her head. "Ted?" Her hand tightens on the phone. "Ted," she repeats. "What are you talking about?"

"Happy anniversary," he sneers. "Tell your husband we appreciate the reminder."

"Ted!" she nearly yells. "What happened?"

"I found your number as I was going through some old paperwork. Jess and I had to pack up a year's worth of work. It's all in boxes now, sitting around, collecting dust."

"I don't – " She swallows nervously. "I don't understand."

"We have no place to reopen and no money to do so," Ted announces. "Thanks for fucking us over. Have a great night."

The harsh click of the dial tone is loud and unforgiving. She turns her head and catches Blake's eye. Without breaking contact, she snaps her phone shut and shoves it in her purse. Blake frowns and walks toward her, realizing what has transpired.

"No," she whispers. She meets him halfway, pushing him back into the room where the guests continue to have a good time. She will not sweep this under the rug; she will not hide this. She's so tired of putting on the façade of a happy and loving marriage. This time, Blake will not get away with what he has done.

"You bastard," she snaps. She digs her heels into the floor, pushing his chest. He's afraid if he tries to push back, she'll yell or fall, and everyone will notice.

"You vindictive, manipulative, son-of-a-bitch!" she shouts. Every guest freezes. Even a waiter with a tray full of drinks pauses in his task. Blake bumps right into him, and both hit the ground in a heap of broken glass and spilled wine.

"How could you do this to him?" she demands. "He's gone! He's trying to get his life together and you just take it away!" She ignores the whispers of the crowd, the hungry eyes dying for more. "You ruined his life, and I will never forgive you for that. Never!" She takes a step back, her hands raised as if to surrender. "I can't do this, Blake. I'm so sick of this. I'm through, do you understand?"

"Rory," he begs. He is back on his feet, reaching for her.

"I hate you," she spits. She spins around and stomps out of the room, leaving Blake to clean up the wreckage she has left in her wake.

>

When he enters the bedroom later that night, she sits on the mattress calmly, dressed in pajamas, her hair neatly brushed. Her breathing is even, her muscles are relaxed. Blake crawls onto the bed behind her, and she doesn't make a sound.

"Rory?" He touches her back, surprised when she doesn't flinch. "Rory, say something."

"I'm sorry I made a scene," she whispers. "I shouldn't have done that."

"Your grandmother is furious. She's going to come over tomorrow and talk to you."

"Okay."

"Are we alright?" he asks quietly. He rests a palm on her shoulder, and she doesn't shake him off.

"We're fine," she answers. "But I'm exhausted. I just want to go to sleep."

"Sure, of course." He kisses her cheek, and turns off the lamp. "I love you, Rory. I hope you know that."

She pulls on the sheet, trying to disappear underneath. "I know."

He finds her hand in the darkness and squeezes. "Good," he whispers. "Don't forget it."

>

Two weeks later, Rory is ready to leap out of her skin as she sits beside Blake at her grandparent's house. The party is a small gathering thrown by Emily and Richard to celebrate Blake's birthday. A few close friends of his are present as well, but Rory is barely aware. She keeps her hand on Blake's throughout the night, giving him all of her attention.

"When do I get my gift?" he asks with a wink.

"Soon enough." She kisses his mouth quickly before either grandparent notices.

"I'm looking forward to it."

She entwines their fingers, looking thoughtful. "You should be."

She has been planning his gift since the night she blew up at him. Every chance she gets, she relives each second of her anger, and it gives her strength; courage. She looks at her watch and decides it is time.

"I think I'm going to head home now, if you don't mind," she announces. "I have a terrible headache."

"Oh, so soon?" Emily asks.

"What about my gift?" Blake pouts, touching her beneath the table.

"Soon," she promises.

She gathers her coat and purse, and kisses her grandparents goodbye.

"Happy Birthday." She hugs Blake, kisses his cheek. "I'll see you later."

On her way down the steps outside, she passes an unfamiliar man whose purpose she immediately recognizes. "He's inside," she advises.

As she pulls out of the driveway, the man rings the doorbell, and the weight inside her chest is gone.

>

At home, she drags her suitcase out to the car, carelessly throwing it into the back. She dumps her jewelry box over the dining room table, earrings, necklaces, and bracelets skittering every which way. She leaves her wedding ring in the middle, a beautiful centerpiece.

"You can take whatever you want," she tells the maid. "Just make sure you leave the ring."

>

Quarter after midnight, Jess's channel surfing is interrupted by a knock on his door. He ambles over, his attention still captivated by the TV screen.

He throws open the door, and he's flying, tumbling through space. The world may continue to turn, but he is knocked off alignment, hurtling toward a black hole.

"I love you." She says it outright without hesitation. She throws her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly. "I'm sorry for taking so long. I'm sorry for being so stupid. I'm just so sorry." She releases him, wanting to see his face when she tells him. "It's over, Jess. All over. I left him."

"Rory…" His face betrays nothing.

"I served him with divorce papers. It's happening. I'm not going back on this."

"Jess, you finished the soda," Charisma pouts, coming to the door. "Oops." She blushes. "I didn't realize we had company."

Rory stares and stares and it don't compute. She doesn't understand; she _refuses_ to understand.

"This is Rory," Jess introduces. "She's just stopping by. Can you excuse us for a minute?"

"Sure." Charisma heads for the couch. Jess steps into the hallway, closing the door behind him.

"Her name is Charisma. I met her in class," Jess explains.

"How long?" Rory asks, barely breathing.

"Since the wedding." He rubs the back of his neck. "Her dad is going to get me a job at his company. It's nothing big. Just until I can find something better. Something permanent."

"Are you in love with her?" It hurts to ask, to even consider the idea that someone else can fill her place.

"Yes," Jess says. "No. I don't know." He stares at Rory, her trembling hands, her pursed lips, her wide eyes. This time, she's the one that's waiting.

"But I want to find out."

"No." She shakes her head to emphasize the point. "No, Jess. Don't do this."

"Do what?" he demands. "You're part of the past, Rory. I moved past you."

"Are you happy?" She takes his hand, brings it to her face. "Because I don't know how to be happy without you."

She kisses him soundlessly, a simple brush of her lips against his. Hiding her face in his chest, she is afraid to look up, let go. He feels the tears through the thin material of his shirt.

"I'm leaving him," she insists. "And you're leaving me all over again."

"I told you this was over. I walked you down the aisle, and you married him. You looked right at me, and you married him anyway."

She takes a step back, stung. "You didn't come to stop it! You came to say goodbye."

"You could have stopped it. Over and over, you chose him over me."

"No!" She reaches behind her, touching the wall. She's afraid she'll fall through the ground, fly away.

"This is my life now." He gestures to the apartment door. "Here. Without you."

"You're doing this to punish me. I know you're mad, and I know I messed everything up, but let me fix it." She almost moves forward to touch him again, but at the last second, she doesn't. "I'm going to make this up to you. Let me make this up to you!"

"No," he says simply. "It's too late."

It's a small sliver of a crack in the middle of her heart. She feels its movement, the way her breathing reaches a lull as her body fights to regain normalcy. She breaks down in front of him, not caring to hide her tears or her desperation.

"Oh god," she whispers. She turns away from him and starts down the hall. Her car is outside, packed with a suitcase and her stupid, childish hope for something better.

"Rory." He does not go after her. She does not face him. "Don't go back to him. Just… go somewhere else. Go be a reporter. Go to Europe. You can start over."

She waits, and when he doesn't say anything else, she heads for the stairs, not looking back.

>

It's nearly a year later when he visits New York and finds her picture in the society pages of a local newspaper. She and Blake grin out at him in black and white, both of their hands resting on her stomach. The caption boasts of her pregnancy; she's four months along.

Jess takes the paper back to his hotel room, and stares at it until his vision blurs and all he can see is their hands clasped together, a promise for the future. He shakes with endless rage, ready to implode with the knowledge that she could be his now, be here with him in bed, and he could be happy.

Happiness is that intangible, unreachable dream he has been chasing since birth; he thought he had found it in her. He had glimpsed it in her smile and in her kiss, but it's gone now; he's ruined it once again.

The light melody of hate fills his head, and it's familiar and comforting; he closes his eyes, hoping it will sing him to sleep. The repetition fuels the anger, and he burns slowly in an anonymous hotel bed.

It's a long while before he realizes that the song has changed, the mood has shifted, and the hate is no longer directed toward her. It's back where it belongs, locked into a position of self-loathing and self-destruction.

He hates himself.

Later, he thinks, he'll buy himself a drink to celebrate his loneliness.

(the end)

* * *

**A/N**: Wow, that was a fun ride, wasn't it? Thanks for reading and reviewing and yelling at me and cursing Rory and telling me how much you cried. I appreciate everything. I hope you enjoyed. 


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